


Untouchable

by ashenwell



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Anal Fingering, And continues in chapter 6 + 9 + 11 + 14, Assorted Gathering of Plucky Sidekicks, But Strap in for Some Heavy Pronoun Usage, But the regular kind has generously been included as well, Cannibalism, Cannibalism As A Way To Say I Love You, Casual Mention of Castration, Child Death, Consensual Sex, Don't worry I've got you, F/M, Gentle femdom, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, It starts in chapter 4 if that is why you are here, One (1) Mention of Bestiality, Or If You Don't Swallow, Oral Sex, Our Gracious MC Eventually Relents and Refers to Some of Them by Name, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, You Can Argue That It's Not Cannibalism if It's Human-on-Xeno, a light touch of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 123,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23653648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashenwell/pseuds/ashenwell
Summary: Holly is not in the habit of questioning orders. She goes where she is sent, does what she is told. As far as she is concerned, the inaccurately named planet Eden 39 is a frozen waste of the Imperium's time and effort. The commissar she has been assigned to is not unpleasant but guarding him leaves her feeling like a grown man’s security blanket. The most strenuous part of her work is coercing her body to move in a way that doesn’t make other humans flinch.Well.Most humans. One of the guardsmen seem inordinately happy to see an untouchable.Or: Untouchable needs some damn affection, guardsman needs therapy, commissar wishes he only worked with asexuals.(Because I have been asked a couple of times: super beginner friendly)
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 104
Kudos: 112





	1. The commissar

**Author's Note:**

> Fairly new to the fandom and holy shit is researching Warhammer lore a complicated mess you guys. This story would have been done ages ago if I had just said ‘fuck it’ and winged it 100% instead of, like, 80%. That being said, do give me a head’s up if I’ve misunderstood lore or what have you.  
> This was supposed to be a ca 10k declaration of love for the untouchables, but as I am writing this it’s at 44k and ongoing. But chapter 1 is sort of done and we're all stuck at home, so here we go.

She didn't move right, or so she had been told.

There was always something that was wrong, something that made people flinch. She had watched and observed and memorized how others moved – their bodies, their hands, their faces. She had practiced and practiced and practiced, and yet it never seemed that she got it quite right. She had learned the right words for polite conversations, how to speak to a superior, the correct way to address a psyker to put fear into them without stepping close enough to harm.

She knew the words. The words were right.

Over the years she had even learned to let some emotion seep into her monotone voice, some real but most of it feigned. It made others more comfortable if she spoke the words the way that they did, even if it didn't come naturally to her.

The movements were still wrong though. Decades of watching and practicing and she had failed to master it.

"It's like watching a mannequin come to life," the commissar says to her one evening. He is always too talkative when he has gotten two glasses into his drinking. Says anything that passes through his head. A blatant security risk.

She sits perfectly still, feet planted firmly on the ground, arms at her sides, back straight. She turns her head towards him to show that she is listening, watches him. Sees the shiver run down his spine as he turns away.

With a small sigh she musters up a soft smile, folds her legs, and leans back a little in the chair that she was assigned on the first evening here. It has been hers ever since, when they are alone. In the company of others, she stands silently by the wall at the commissar's back, watching and waiting for any sign of aggression in his companion. There has been none so far. Her presence here feels unnecessary, as if she is an overgrown child's security blanket. Yet, the inquisitor sent her here, and until further orders arrive, this is where she will remain.

"I apologize, sir," she says, folding her hands in her lap. "It is not my intent to make you uncomfortable. Do you want me to leave?"

He gives her a half-filled glass instead of answering her, she accepts it. It is what is done. She doesn’t enjoy it, drinks anyway, sips gently. Decides not to display the discomfort she feels, focuses on acting like a normal person who is at ease.

"I think we all want to leave," he says, and the words began to spill out of him readily, washing over her like water from a cracked pipe.

She watches, nods, offers small “hmm”s and “mhm”s to assure him she finds his rambling engaging. The gentle hint of a smile never leaves her lips, focuses on ensuring that her eyebrows express concern when appropriate. It seems that it is a good enough display of emoting for the commissar, at least now that he is on his third glass. His mind remains on his own concerns – venting over the useless troops, the insufficient intelligence, the unsatisfactory quarters, his fellow commissars.

She listens obediently.

He is lonely. He only has her to confide in, here on this unwelcoming planet. She accepted the role early on. She is lonely too. It is not a conversation, no exchange between equals. Still, it is better than her previous posting, where she had only ever been spoken to when given orders.

The commissar finishes his third glass with a sigh and sinks deeper into the couch. The hat and coat are long since discarded and the sleeves have been rolled up. Three buttons are undone, strands of black hair have escaped whatever hair products he uses to keep it in place, descending to caress his temple.

 _Messy_ , she thinks, but doesn’t say.

“I’ve seen the figures,” he goes on, gesturing with his empty glass, index finger pointing at her as he does so. “The ammunition is not going to be enough, not the way they spray and pray, but tell a guardsman to aim and…” he lets out a deep sigh and looks at her.

Feeling the sudden pressure to move in a natural way she quickly glances down at her already awkwardly arranged limbs. She shifts a little, clutches her glass with both hands in her lap before blinking twice and looking back at the commissar, her head ever so slightly tilted to the side.

He gestures with his free hand, fingers splayed wide, movement fast and expressive. Frustration. No words follow though. At long last he seems to have run out of them.

“I am not saying that it will solve anything,” she says gently, taking care to put softness and familiarity in her voice as she turns the glass slowly in her hands. “But I still suggest that you retire for the evening, sir. A good night’s sleep can’t hurt.”

Another sigh, not as frustrated, more resigned.

“You are probably right, Holly,” he runs his hand through his hair, making an even worse mess of it. “I have probably worn you out too.”

She smiles, lips closed but wider than before, as if he has said something that is a little amusing. She is tired though. He leans forward and moves his hand towards her, as if to touch her shoulder, thinks better of it, pulls away.

A sense of disappointment in herself hits her. She had almost gotten it right, almost masked the wrongness of her, yet something reminded him of it. Worse yet, she is not sure what it was.

Her hands had been fidgeting, her posture was relaxed and unsafe, she had smiled well, she knows that. He responded to the smile. The eyes? Had she not blinked often enough? Held her head too still?

The commissar rises from his seat, discarding the empty glass on the table.

“Good night, Holly,” he says, yawning as he slouches away towards his private chambers.

“Good night, sir,” she replies, unfolding her legs and rising to her feet. The pretense over, she stretches her back, dutifully puts away the used glasses. Tidying up is not in her job description, a servitor’s task in truth, yet she often finds herself doing it here.

Her own room is down a narrow hallway connected to the common room where they end their evenings. Quite separate from the commissar’s – respectable. Too far away to hear him snore when he sleeps on his side. Every now and then he falls asleep on the couch and if his head tilts to the side in just the wrong way, he produces a positively deafening noise. How he doesn’t wake himself up is beyond her.

She closes the door to her quarters behind her. It has no lock. Not respectable, but of no consequence. She has been left alone for these past three and a half weeks. Even the servitor waits obediently outside in the hallway until she leaves the room in the morning. Her mother would have had no objections. She has no objections.

It is a small room. A servant’s quarter, no doubt. It suits her. A bed, a chair, a worn rug, an excessively large dark wooden dresser that dominates one of the peeling walls. Most of the drawers are empty. A door to a small bathroom. No windows. A small airduct, clean. If the bedroom had had a lock it could easily have been to lock someone in, rather than out. She could survive in here for days without excessive discomfort.

She undresses in silence. Boots first – placed next to the chair. Weapons – sidearm, knives, sword, all holstered and carefully laid out on top of the dresser in parallel lines. Jacket – on its hanger. Pants – folded, over the back of the wooden chair. Shirt – folded but not very carefully, placed on the dresser, at the edge for the servitor to gather and clean in the morning. Socks on top of the shirt – discarded half on top of one another, uneven and unimportant. Underwear – similarly carelessly abandoned on the pile of clothes meant for the laundry. She slips into her night gown, long, thick, soft. It reaches almost all the way down to her knees.

The floor is cold against her feet as she stands there, looking at the part of the galaxy that is hers, if however temporarily. It reminds her of her childhood room, in some ways. Tucked away, out of sight, out of mind. She had a lock on her door then though. Her mother had never actually locked her in, but the lock had been there, with the key on the outside. She had spent an inordinate amount of time looking at that lock as a child, trying to decipher what it meant. What her mother meant.

When the Black Ship came, she had learned. A behemoth in the sky, casting a shadow over the city. Shining a light upon the truths she had struggled to see as a child.

There is a lock on the bathroom door, on the inside. A semblance of privacy, though the door is wooden and would be easy to kick in if there was a desire. No real protection. A security blanket, not a shield.

She brushes her teeth, watching herself in the mirror. Face – passive. Blank. Like she is.

The commissar hadn’t been wrong. He had worn her out. The day had worn her out. Being around people, struggling to perform and suppress her condition had worn her out. Grey eyes look back at her, dull and seeing without reflecting anything of her.

“Eyes are the window of the soul,” her reading tutor had told her once. She spits the toothpaste into the chipped sink as she remembers the distaste that tinged his words. “Yours betray what you are.”

Probably the eyes that hadn’t reflected the right emotion. Any emotion. That was probably it, she thinks as she looks at herself again. She tries the smile once more. The smile looks right. The delicate skin around her eyes crinkle a little, cheek muscles moving to suggest happiness. She’s heard people speak of a sparkle in someone’s eye, but she has never seen anything of the sort when other people smile. What she does looks right to her.

It had been wrong.

There was always something wrong.

They eat breakfast together. She is given the same food as the commissar, which had confused her the first day, but she had not openly questioned the arrangement. She eats what she is given. She drinks the recaff she is poured, even though she doesn’t enjoy the bitterness of it.

It is overly familial and strange, but she puts it down to the commissar wanting her close, in case something goes wrong. In case of an attack. Of psykers, of daemons, of a lasgun aimed at his back. She sits on his left-hand side, at the side of the mostly empty table, and partake in the morning ritual in silence.

Mornings are silent, just as evenings are filled with talk. She suspects it is the drink. He drinks too much, especially if he’s been angry during the day.

He rarely looks at her during the morning though, so for the most part she can eat in peace. Focus on dividing the food into mouthfuls, putting one after another into her mouth. Chewing. Swallowing. Another. Another. Sip the recaff, followed by the small grimace. It is allowed. He likes seeing her move her face, even if it is to express disapproval. It doesn’t matter this time. He isn’t looking.

His eyes are on a dataslate, always. Reports. Reviewing answers to missives he sent the day before. Sometimes he makes a small noise, a grunt, can be good or bad. It is usually evident which. The bad ones are far more common. She learned the procedure early on.

A grunt of displeasure. She finishes chewing. Swallows. Reaches for the recaff, arranges her face to reflect genuine curiosity, looks at him.

“Quartermaster,” he informs her, glancing at her before returning to the data.

She nods and sips the recaff. It is bitter and unpleasant, but it assures her that she has gotten more than enough sleep. It is not lying, but it would say that even it if it was untrue. She need not bother performing for the commissar any further than this in the morning. He will let her know when he wants to be seen. Heard. Acknowledged.

It is overly familiar, but she allows it. He is lonely. She is lonely. It is not kinship, but she finds that the arrangement is not unpleasant.

He finishes eating before her but waits for her to finish. He reads, pretending that that is all he is doing. That she is not a factor. She knows that she is because he told her the first morning, when she abandoned part of her meal to be ready to go when he was.

“We are in no rush,” he had said, lifting the dataslate. “You’ll need the energy.”

She still tries to eat a little bit faster than she would prefer in the mornings, pretends that she doesn’t. He pretends not to notice. Or he doesn’t notice. She isn’t sure. His face is void of emotion for the most part in the morning. Somehow it is different from when she relaxes her face.

She wishes she could tell the difference.

She grew up lonely. Tolerated, because her mother insisted, but not invited. She spent a lot of time at home, in her room, outside of it. On the steps inside the hab block. There had been complaints and so she was not allowed on the eighteenth or twenty-first floor.

There had not been a lot of people around her growing up, despite it being a crowded city. There had been looks, words, the occasionally thrown rock. One had landed and left a small scar on her forehead. The notoriously short-tempered gang generously referred to as the police of their hab block had paid the Garrow family a visit the next day. She never learned exactly what her mother had told them, but she connected the dots when she got older. No one threw anything at her after that. Kept their distance.

She was likely one of the very few who had found a hiveworld lonely.

The camp reminds her of those days. Walking behind the commissar, always within reach, is not unlike trailing her mother on errands. Walking through the camp overflowing with guardsmen is familiar too, but the noises are different from the city. There are people everywhere, running, shouting. Sometimes she hears a laugh. Screams as survivors are rushed towards the medical facilities. Orderly chaos, she has been assured, but she is not certain she believes the former part of that statement.

They still notice her, some even in passing. As if she is a foul breeze that catches their attention despite their best efforts to go about their business. No one throws anything though. If that is because of the commissar or because the guardsmen are better behaved than civilians, she is not certain. She would wager on the former. She has seen how they behave when given leave.

Her days are uneventful to the point of tediousness for the most part. Acting the commissar’s shadow only means that she is present when he gives orders to guardsmen, doles out fairly petty punishments, and shouts at particularly put off NCOs for not producing the results that he expects of them.

They’ve lost a sixth of their psykers already. Most to friendly fire when the psyker lost control. Practically a natural cause of death, but those are bad figures. Throwing more guardsmen at the enemy is easy, there are always more that can be shipped in. Sanctioned psykers are a different story altogether, especially out here.

“That is the _second_ one you’ve lost!” the commissar shouts, his voice carrying. The other man is a little bit taller, significantly broader, with a thick stubble disturbed by patches of old burn scars on the left cheek. Used to taking these kinds of verbal barrages by the look of him. Jaw clenched and brown eyes in the distance. A hint of acknowledgement where it is due.

“Lost” was a misnomer, of course. “Put down” would have been more accurate, judging by the man’s earlier statement. She chooses not to comment. She never does.

“And _you_ ,” the commissar’s coat flares around him as he turns to direct his wrath upon a different guardsman, plump and with a neatly trimmed beard. The man instantly takes a deep breath and seems to grow two inches with the effort of steeling himself. “Half the squad lost!? All the equipment?”

She watches as the guardsman grows red in the face, yet doesn’t argue. There are two handfuls of them present, or thereabout. Each one of them with a tale of failure. Each one enough to send the commissar into a fit of rage.

She waits with them in silence, her eyes wandering, searching for threats and finding none. As usual no one seems willing to acknowledge her presence. She is an extension of the commissar but has none of his authority. The burned man smiles at her.

She blinks.

“If someone smiles at you, you smile back.” Her mother in front of the mirror, showing a pretty smile with good straight teeth that had begun to go yellow. Too much recaff. “Like this,” she had said. “Try it.”

Holly smiles back and looks away. When she glances back at him, he catches her looking, smiles again. The commissar is still shouting at the plump man and pays them no attention. She returns the smile, though she feels that a frown would be more suitable.

Drunk, maybe, she concludes. Some men didn’t seem to notice her condition when they were deep in their cups. Granted, they also didn’t seem to notice that they had two legs that they needed to coordinate to walk at that point, and despite whatever the man is on he seems to be in control of his body at least.

Eventually the commissar dismisses the guardsmen, with no small amount of disgust. She positions herself at his left shoulder, waits as they leave, listens to him mutter curses and insults under his breath. He is a little bit hoarse when he finally addresses her.

“I must have pissed off someone important to get stuck with this lot,” he huffs.

It wouldn’t surprise her. She is here, after all.

He had filed a request for an untouchable bodyguard and her inquisitor had sent her with instructions to act the part until further orders arrived. Either he has powerful friends, ruthless enemies, or he is unwittingly sitting on a resource the inquisitor wants. It is not the first time she has been given such instructions. More often than not the orders that finally arrive include eliminating her temporary co-workers.

The regiment itself is made up by a patchwork of old regiments, their numbers whittled down so much that they had to be thrown in together with strangers from other parts of the galaxy to even be considered a fighting force. And yet.

“There is something to be said for guardsmen that have survived at least one battle, sir,” she offers.

“That they are too bloody dumb to know they are better off bleeding out,” he replies darkly. Glances at her, expression softening a little. “I’m sorry, Holly. You aren’t to blame for this.”

She smiles a little, nods. Eyebrows moving up a little towards the center of her forehead. Aims to make it a forgiving smile but isn’t sure she’s gotten it right. He turns away with a sigh, leaving her with nothing but uncertainty.

“Dinner should be about ready,” he informs her, starts to walk. She quickly moves to match his pace. 

The guardsmen are interchangeable to her for the most part. She recognizes faces, occasionally remembers ranks. They are a teeming horde of people and a lot of them become incomplete remains of bodies in short order. No one threatens the commissar, no one bothers her, so she pays them only the most cursory attention. The quartermaster is different.

“You will find that I sent you no less than two messages this morning,” the commissar says, too loud. The moment he steps out from their quarters he becomes too loud. The world does too, in truth, but she would prefer it if he didn’t add to all the unnecessary noise.

“Well, sir, I’m sure I would have, had the dataslates not gone missing,” the quartermaster replies, crossing her muscular arms. She has the kind of a build that you only get on feral worlds. Hardened, muscular, big. She looks like she could break the commissar over her knee if she wanted to. Something in the way she narrows her eyes when he raises his voice at her reveals that she is very aware of it too, finds the idea tempting.

“What do you mean ‘gone missing’?” the commissar snaps, ignoring the curling of the woman’s scarred lip.

She looks at the quartermaster, sizing her up. The other woman is probably twice her weight, almost two heads taller, and all muscle. Not a psyker and irritated enough that she is wholly focused on the commissar, despite Holly standing well within the discomfort range. She spared her a glance when they first arrived, but that is all. She seems to favor one knee though. An old injury, probably. It would explain why she is dealing with inventory rather than the enemy. A good blow to the right knee ought to bring her to the ground if necessary, Holly concludes. Still, not a fight she would like to have.

Behind them a man waves at her.

Well, in her direction.

She blinks, recognizing him from the previous day. The burned man. She glances around, seeing no one react. People are walking around her, giving her ample room, but that is all. Like minnow around a shark. He is positively grinning by the time she looks back at him.

That is probably the same as smiling. More or less. Under the circumstances. So, she smiles, but does not raise her hand to wave back. It seems like a thing she ought to do, in theory, in a social setting, but not in a professional one. He gestures past her, up the muddy street. As her eyes follow where he is pointing, she realizes to her horror that the commissar has wandered off.

Without looking back she hurries down the street, glimpsing his hat above the crowd. The giantess is with him too, it seems, and he evidently hasn’t noticed that she’s been distracted. The guardsmen part before her as she jogs to catch up, slowing to a brisk walk as she draws near. The commissar glances back at her, noticing movement behind him at least, but turns back to his companion while gesturing aggressively with his hands.

“Crates of equipment don’t just wander off!” he insists. She wishes that commissars didn’t wander off either.

“I am fully aware of that,” the quartermaster says through gritted teeth.

She watches her as they walk, observes the way she displays her anger like a flare in a night sky. The narrowed eyes, flared nostrils, mouth moving stiffly, showing more teeth than necessary when she speaks. Her hands are clenched, but she never lashes out as the commissar keeps loudly voicing his displeasure with her performance.

Not once does he seem to consider that the massive woman might strike him. Perhaps that is why Holly is here after all. Not because the commissar needed her around to feel safe, but because his superiors wanted someone there to ensure his safety when he lacked the self-preservation to leave well enough alone.

The commissar’s office is the best furnished room in the building, one of the better ones in the base. That being said, the walls could have used a new coat of paint a decade ago. The door hinges creak. The commissar had wanted them oiled. She had objected. A door that creaks can give you a second’s warning, she had told him. He had just blinked at her, as if the concept of an assassination attempt had never crossed his mind, even though she was assigned to protect him. He had taken her advice though.

The once fine furniture is worn. She has tried the couch in the corner and found it so hard that she frankly prefers to stand. It is as if the stuffing has turned to concrete with the passing of the years. The commissar’s chair, on the other hand, squeaks but is comfortable. She tested it on the fourth day, when he had temporarily left the room.

The massive desk is seemingly made of solid wood, but she tried to lift it and found it heavier than it should be. Perhaps inlaid with metal. Either way, it would only be able to provide limited cover in case of a firefight.

“I am not assigning you _another_ psyker,” the commissar says.

Well.

“Says” was generous.

“Snaps” was probably more accurate. Like a single mother of four who has not had a minute to herself for months. Voice tight and sharp. A verbal slap, a reminder that things could easily escalate. That it is on the other party to ensure that it doesn’t.

She stands perfectly still two steps behind him, at his left shoulder. The man in front of the heavy desk is almost as motionless. He nods solemnly, no objection passing his lips. 

“There are not enough psykers to go around, this planet seems intent on eating them up, and _you_ have already fucked up twice,” the commissar goes on. He gestures with his whole hand. Not an accusation, only a declaration of displeasure. There is no arguing the failure. It is a fact. Black on white. Blood on stone.

“With all due respect, commissar Lynch,” the burned man says, his tone suggesting that there is actually a sizeable chunk of respect that is due. No anger. Just resignation. “I am not here to request a psyker. I don’t want a psyker.”

That seems to catch the commissar off-guard. She can’t see his face, but he leans forward a little in the chair, making it squeak. She suspects he is frowning. Judging by the movement of his head he looks the other man over once, quickly, searching for something.

“Then why are you _here_?” he demands, his tone making it clear that he doesn’t have a high opinion of the guardsman’s intelligence. “If you need more men you don’t turn to _me_. You should know that by now.”

“Yes, sir, I do,” he agrees, keeping the irritation almost entirely out of his voice. “Where we are going, we need an untouchable, sir.”

She stops breathing for a handful of seconds as the room grows quiet. Still. Time seems to come to a halt, but she can feel her heart steadily beating.

“Excuse me?”

“There is a notable daemon infestation in the region,” he explains. “A psyker would be a liability. Has been a liability. If we could temporarily be assigned an untouchable the odds for success would improve significantly.”

The commissar stares at him, dumbfounded. Leans back, chair squeaking again. Turns to look at her. Another squeak. She meets his eyes, genuinely surprised and forgetting to express anything. As far as she is aware, she is the only untouchable on all of Eden 39.

“If you can’t do your job-” he starts, turning to sneer at the guardsman.

“I’ll go,” she hears herself say. It is improper, interrupting, especially interrupting a superior officer. She blames the inappropriate familiarity that he has fostered during the month she has been assigned to him. She has forgotten her manners, her place. “If I may, sir,” she adds, belatedly.

The commissar turns again to gawk at her. She musters up a small smile, tilting her head a little downwards, shifting her weight a little bit more onto the right leg than the left. One hand gently grasps the other in front of her and she blinks twice. It is the first initiative she has displayed. She supposes that it is only natural that it surprised him. A month of quietly agreeing and doing what she is told, playing along, suddenly interrupted.

It is good that she surprised him though, she notes. The burned man seems unable to contain a smile of his own. Thin lips part to show unremarkable teeth, eyes squint, crow’s feet deepen in the corner of his eyes. The lines running from the wings of his nose towards the corners of his mouth growing more pronounced, a hint of a dimple on the unburned cheek. It appears genuine. Happy. The kind of a smile that her mother had worked so hard with her to achieve in front of the chipped mirror. She still struggles to make it look right. To make all the muscles line up in a natural way. It is easy to forget that the eyebrows have to be pulled upwards just a little bit towards the temples, hard to determine how much is too much.

She settles for keeping the soft, passive smile on her lips, eyebrows a little raised. Friendly, innocent. Harmless. It is the smile she has practiced the most.

“You _want_ to go?” the commissar asks, incredulously. Everything about him radiates doubt. His words, his tone, how he gestures towards her with both hands, the way he scrunches up his face, his body matches as he rises from his chair. It squeaks again.

Does he question her desire to go into the field, or her ability to desire anything?

“I could use the exercise,” she tells him, opting for an answer that will satisfy regardless of which of the questions is the genuine one. Impersonal, factual. She has been here for a full month and nothing of note has happened.

Behind the commissar the burned man seems to master his face once more. Solemn, neutral, passive. He watches the situation play out, waiting for an answer, for all appearances not caring overly much about the outcome. It doesn’t escape her notice that they are acting the part that come naturally to the other. 

“There are cultists and daemons out there,” the commissar says, as if she hasn’t listened at all during her stay here.

“I am good at dealing with daemons,” she assures him. “It is what the Emperor made me for.”

"Your soul is already with the Emperor," her mother had told her, more than once. She suspected that her father hadn't felt the same way when he decided that leaving was preferable to sharing a home with a hollow child.

She is certain that her mother repeated those words for her own benefit, to remind herself that she couldn't walk away as well.

"The Emperor made you this way to help regular humans," she had assured her. That lesson had been drilled into her at an early age.

She had been lucky, of course. Her mother had known what was wrong with her. Had reluctantly interacted with an untouchable some years before she had given birth to Holly. Consequently, she hadn't abandoned her. Hadn't left like her father, who hadn't been able to stand to look at the doll-like creature watching him in the corner of his eye whenever he was home. Mother had tolerated it. Hadn't liked it but had mumbled assurances that there was a meaning to this to herself. Had occasionally brought Holly to the mirror and instructed her when to move her face and how. She had been eight before she realized that other children didn’t get those lessons. Didn’t need them.

When the Black Ship came her mother took her by the hand and led her to the docks herself. Handed her over, unquestioning, relieved to have done her part in helping protect the imperium. It had been the right thing to do, Holly knew that, but it had at the same time felt like a fundamental betrayal.

They had asked her to wait. There was a process, a system. So, she had stood perfectly still, a little away from the psykers, and watched as her mother distanced herself. Gave room. Somehow watching her from a little further away whenever Holly’s eyes found hers. Eventually she disappeared in the crowd, long before they were escorted into the shuttle itself. Once the massive metal doors had clicked shut that had been that. The end of her old life, the start of a new. She had never gone back.

The way that the commissar looks at her now is different. He clearly wants to deny her request, to demand that she stay. For whatever reason he seems to have a harder time making the same decision her mother made all those years ago.

“Fine,” he finally says and follows it up with an exasperated sigh. He turns to face the burned man again, clearly displeased with how this meeting has turned out. “She will come back alive – I don’t care how many of your men you have to sacrifice to ensure that. If your team comes back without her, every single one of you _will_ be executed.”

“Yes, sir.” The response is stiff, and his eyes seems to be firmly placed just at the commissar’s neatly arranged hairline.

She watches the commissar as he continues to lay out restrictions, demands more information concerning the mission. It seems to matter more to him now that she will travel with the guardsmen. A map is produced, the two men do a lot of pointing and arguing back and forth about routes. She remains quiet, silently slipping into a more comfortable, evenly balanced position. Both feet firmly on the ground, hands at her sides, eyes forward, face still.

It reminds her of her mother, laying out all the rules she expected the teachers and tutors to follow before allowing them to interact with her only child. Demands to keep her safe. To hide their discomfort from her best they could. Enforce the same in the other children. Warnings that if she was returned home harmed, or, worse, not returned at all, there would be hell to pay.

“The Emperor made you this way for a reason,” her mother had said. “All of this is temporary. The Emperor has a plan for you. This is just to prepare you for more important things.”


	2. The 116th, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now we are heading into “I’ve tried to make sense of what the rulebook and the wiki say, which is practically nothing when it comes to anything I think is important to know” and artistic license has been applied accordingly. I am, however, fully aware of the severe lack of mixed regiments in canon but I shall respectfully ignore that part of the lore.  
> Anyway, here's an illustration of [Holly](https://zenatness.tumblr.com/post/615483595263557632/at-the-start-of-the-year-i-began-working-on-a-new).

There is a backpack outside of her bedroom door the next morning. The necessities, she is informed during breakfast. Part of the trip will be a hike on foot, and she needs a bedroll. Warmer socks. Thicker gloves. The commissar continues to list items that have been included as he eats without looking at her, only gesturing at her with his fork once in a while. The concern is not unwelcome, but unfamiliar.

“Thank you,” she says once he seems to have finished his list. A pair of extra grenades. Sensible.

“Yes, well,” he sighs deeply, making it clear that he is not happy. He has finished his breakfast though, she notes, so his displeasure doesn’t run as deep as he pretends. There have been a couple of mornings when he has abandoned his breakfast half-eaten in disgust over the content of the missives.

Still, she takes on a demure manner, with gentle smiles and soft tones when she speaks. Asks him casual questions, how he slept, if something worries him, if there are any security concerns. The kind of work she normally doesn’t have to put in this early.

She finishes her breakfast and they abandon the table in unison. She finds herself wondering who will take her place while she is away. If she will be welcomed back upon her return or be permanently replaced. Perhaps sent back, away from the lousy weather. She isn’t sure if she would be disappointed or not. Working for the commissar is unstimulating, but not disagreeable. The Inquisitor would be displeased if she was sent away early though, maybe even angry. 

Holly dons her thick coat over the armor, shoulders the backpack, notes that it is a bit heavier than she would have liked. Perhaps she is simply out of shape. The thought displeases her. She goes to the commissar’s office, knocks on the door, waits.

“Yes?”

She pushes the door open, hears it creak, an unpleasant noise, louder than the chair. She is already too warm wearing her full winter gear indoors but is not inclined to let him know.

“Stay safe, sir,” she says, offering up the sweetest smile she can. Waves at him, keeping the motion small, contained. Not meant to attract attention, just to say goodbye. Familiar, a bit childish. It is not the proper way to communicate with your superiors, but it seems to please him. He smiles in return, leans back in his squeaking seat, looks at her.

“You too, Holly,” he says. “And I mean it. I don’t care if you have to leave them bleeding out in a ditch – you come back, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” she nods, not liking the order but refraining from letting it show. She is not in the habit of disobeying, but she notes that there is room for a mulish interpretation this time. Technically she did hear the words.

“Go on then.”

“Sir,” she nods again and closes the door. Leaves him to his paperwork. He is always grumpier the days he has to deal with a lot of paperwork. She suspects he prefers yelling at people. As far as she has seen he is not a trigger-happy commissar, but certainly a shouty one.

The two guards by the door say nothing as she passes them, exits out into the cold. For once it’s only raining. An improvement, it must be said. A woman in guardsman green is waiting for her, seems startled at her appearance despite evidently having expected her.

“Ah!” she stands up straight, her full height bringing her up to about Holly’s eyebrows. “You’re the, yes, of course. I’m Alexandra Roth. Sergeant Eade asked me to guide you, when you were ready.”

She isn’t a woman, Holly corrects herself. She is a girl still. Smooth faced and a bit plump of the cheeks, a hint of baby fat clinging on underneath the unmarred skin. The girl is a decade younger than her at least, perhaps nearly two. Her skin almost the same color as her dark brown eyes and with kinky hair as black as the space between the stars, tied into two buns at the back of her neck, poking out underneath the helmet. Too young. Far too young.

“Holly Bleak,” she says, but doesn’t offer her hand. Knows it is unwanted. Makes people uncomfortable.

“I’ve never worked with an untouchable before,” the child says, gesturing for Holly to follow her. She does. She assumes that there have been a lot of firsts for her escort in a very short period of time. Finds herself uncertain if she hopes the girl has seen battle already or not.

The child looks at her in brief, furtive glances. Clearly trying to make sense of what it is that is wrong, what keeps drawing her eye, without staring. Hasn’t figured out that it’s the movement just yet. It is a matter of time. It would have been preferable to have the conversation with the whole team at once and get it over with, but it is evident that it is needed now.

“It is not my intention to make you uncomfortable,” Holly says, taking care to put on an apologetic tone. It seems to be preferred for this topic. “It is simply an unfortunate side effect of my condition.”

“Oh, um, I didn’t intend to say,” she clears her throat, looks away, seems a bit embarrassed. Apparently thought that she hid the looks better.

“It is normal,” she tries to assure the girl, offers up a smile. “I don’t take offense. I have been informed that I move in an unnatural way.”

More than once. Sometimes repeatedly from the same person. Once eight times during the same evening. She chooses not to be that specific.

“Oh. I don’t think it’s that bad.”

A kind lie, but a lie. Or perhaps the masquerade is working well enough for the untrained eye. She chooses not to press the issue, accepts the kindness when it is given. It often isn’t.

“Will it be a long journey?” she asks Roth instead, already knowing the answer.

There are six of them. Six guardsmen are all that remain of the former 116th regiment, and she doubts that Roth is an original member. The rest have a decade or two on her. The burned man grins at her when she walks up to them, his pale skin ruddy from the cold. She returns a smile.

“See?” he says to one of the men, the back of his hand hitting the other’s arm with a light tap. “I wasn’t full of shit. The commissar’s bodyguard volunteered to assist us.”

The other guardsman looks at her like he doesn’t quite believe what he is seeing, eyes traveling up and down her repeatedly, a frown on his face. His neatly trimmed brown beard is shaved into stripes. At first glance it looks like peculiarly even scars, but as she stands in front of him, she sees the arrangement is very much on purpose. The way he looks at her suggests that she is even stranger than his grooming habits. She files his beard away as a possible cultural thing that she simply has never encountered before.

“I don’t want to know what you had to do for Lynch to allow this,” the man declares, shaking his head. There is no judgement, a hint of amusement. “I’m just glad you can walk today.”

“Get in the fucking Centaur, Coleman,” he mock sighs, doesn’t sound offended. Turns to her, gestures to the vehicle. “It’s going to be a bit of that, sorry.”

“I understand,” she says. She is aware of familiar jargon, inside jokes, friendly teasing. Aware of it in general terms, knows enough to understand its value though she has no personal experience with it, like communicating with machine spirits. Her mother would have disapproved of the crudeness of this particular display, but Holly finds that she doesn’t care so long as it isn’t directed at her.

The Centaur is a bit of a mess she notes. By all appearances, the pintle-mount has been blown off at some point. The front of the vehicle is heavily dented, a patchwork of repairs, and a roof has been installed over the crew compartment, suggesting that someone prioritized keeping its passengers out of the cold over firepower. As she climbs into it, she notes that alterations have been made to remove the pintle-mount base and make room for a slightly larger crew. Retired from battle, as far as a functioning vehicle in the Astra Militarum ever will be.

She takes a seat across from the curiously shaved man, places her backpack between her feet. Buckles her harness while four of the others climb in. The man with the deep pockmarks throws his pack inside with them and closes the door. The driver then, she concludes.

The burned man sits down next to her, across from a brown-haired woman whose nose appears to have been broken at least twice. Roth on her left, seeming somehow even smaller and younger this close to her companions. A fourth man across from the girl, fair-haired, pasty complexion, and wearing only one glove. His exposed hand is made of metal, she notes as he adjusts his safety harness. A decent prosthetic, but very clearly not the highest quality.

They are introduced to her, one after another, accept her apology that she will no doubt cause them discomfort the entire journey, that as long as they are close enough to sense it they are afforded some protection from the warp. They all act as if nothing is wrong, still glance at her now and then, but they pretend it is for no reason. She chooses to go along with the charade, tries to remember to move a little to make it easier on them.

There is nothing smooth about the ride. No sooner have they left the camp behind than they start to get jostled roughly and frequently. She is grateful for the harness that keeps her from falling out of her seat at every unexpected jolt. It is as if they hit every bump in the road, and she is fairly certain that a large chunk of their journey is done across unkept terrain to boot. The roads have not been maintained, stretches of them have been left as little more than rubble-filled craters. During the first week the commissar mentioned in passing that the world was to be rebuilt once properly cleared of hostiles. Insinuated that there was no point in putting material and effort into buildings that may get flattened in conflict the next week. She feels that she is paying the price for that decision now.

An hour of the unpleasant ride passes uneventfully, quietly. The guardsmen seem less inclined to conversation now, she sees the medic with the metal hand doze off. The girl follows.

She is a little startled when she feels a weight against her leg, remains perfectly still, looks down. The burned man, Eade’s leg leans against hers, warmth seeping through layers of cloth. She glances at him, sees his eyes are closed, head gently leaned forward, breathing heavily. Asleep. She doesn’t move her leg. Would have to move her bag then. She is fairly certain that would be rude.

Roth sleeps leaning on her neighbor’s shoulder, though it looks uncomfortable. The older guardswoman isn’t a lot taller than her; it must strain the neck. She is awake though, glances down at the girl, at Holly. Smiles a crooked smile. The unevenness probably due to the two parallel scars running down her left cheek, across lips, reach low on the chin.

Holly feels that she should say something, knows mentioning people’s grooming habits is out of the question, is left with only one thing she can think of.

“How old is she?”

“Said she was eighteen when she signed up,” she says, shrugging her unoccupied shoulder. “My guess? Sixteen or so by now.”

“Too young,” she says, though she once garroted a psyker with her shoelaces at that age. Her assignments are different though. Fewer enemies. Less artillery fire. Nowhere near as many people she knows dying around her.

The guardswoman only nods, glances down at Roth, says nothing. Silence stretches between them for a few seconds before Wechsler speaks again.

“We don’t pry,” she explains to Holly quietly. “Kids who sign up… either idealists or running from something. She says she’s eighteen, then she’s eighteen.”

“Now, now,” the strangely bearded man says, arms folded and leaning against the wall, eyes still closed. “Some of us got drafted kicking and screaming and just happened to be eighteen for two years in a row. We just didn’t know we skipped seventeen is all, and lucky us the Administratum could set us straight just in time for the tithe.”

She can taste the bitterness in the air, doesn’t know what to say, remains silent.

“Coleman is also a bit cranky because he’s not the baby anymore,” the guardswoman grins, is rewarded with a middle finger flipped in her direction. “How old were you?”

Holly blinks, glances at Coleman, tries not to focus on his beard. Doesn’t want to diminish his sense of injustice which he has clearly held on to for a decade or so. He pops an eye open, curious.

“Twelve,” she says finally.

“Shit.”

“They would have taken me even if I was two,” she says, shrugs to show that it doesn’t trouble her. “I think they would have preferred that, truth be told.”

Her mother would have too, she is certain. She had waited for the Black Ship’s arrival, prayed to the Emperor that it would be soon, before Holly grew too old to be properly trained. The Emperor had answered her prayers, if not fully. She didn’t have what it took to serve on the Black Ship, the senior guard had informed her with no small amount of disappointment. Still, she could be trained in battle and learn to wield her condition as a weapon. Could still serve a purpose, still serve the imperium. Was still valuable. The Emperor made her this way for a reason. It just wasn’t the reason her untouchable superiors had hoped for.

They spend three days in the vehicle, huddled together and taking turns driving it. The rest devote most of the time to sleeping, somehow. Though she is not inclined to voice her discomfort she finds the bumpy ride most disagreeable. When they make camp at night she eats, and then crawls up in a corner in the back of the Centaur to sleep. She finds that she misses her hard bed, not so hard when compared to the floor. The peace of having a room of her own, rather than listening to Singh and Coleman snoring. She had thought that all the naps they took during the day would mean they wouldn’t need to sleep at night. She had been wrong.

She misses the food too, but that is less surprising. She has eaten better on this assignment than she has for a long time. Rations and recaff are a rude awakening to reality. She has begun to go soft, she realizes as she sits and uses her cup to warms her hands. Turns it around every now and then, keeps moving even when sitting, knows it isn’t smooth enough to come off as normal, but no movement is worse, creeps people out more. They have taken shelter behind the Centaur, huddled and cold. A little fire to warm the recaff and frozen toes. Primitive.

No.

She has become spoiled. The commissar has spoiled her, and she has developed a taste for it. The thought is troubling. She knows that she can’t expect this standard of living on her assignments. Can’t afford to become comfortable with living like this. She sips her recaff, grimaces a little, reminds herself of reality.

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it,” Coleman says. He’s effectively the cook, as far as she has seen. As far as anything is cooked. More accurately, he brews the recaff. Keeps track of the rations.

It takes her a moment to process his statement, even as he watches her from across the little fire. She looks at him, then at Eade, needing confirmation. He in turn looks surprised, gestures with his hand, fingers splayed wide, frowns, a shrug, a small nod. After a moment of hesitation, she hands the still half-full cup to Coleman. He takes it, shrugs, pours the remaining content into his own cup.

She has been raised to eat what she has been provided without complaint. This has been consistent from living with her mother, on the Black Ship, during her training, her service with the Inquisition. It is a peculiar feeling to be told that she can decline without consequence.

She drinks no more recaff during the excursion.

Somehow it feels like an even greater luxury than that afforded to her by the commissar.

On the third day the battered Centaur comes to a stop. It is Small, the medic, who slams his metal hand against the wall to the back of the vehicle, informing them from the driver’s seat that they have reached their destination. The noise startles the sleepers, some fumbling for their weapons, some yawning and rubbing drool from their chins. She unbuckles, waits for the others to lead the way. The guardsmen have been in the area before. Not _here_ , but nearby. Were forced to retreat.

They step out into a frozen landscape. There is precious little snow, but frost and ice cling to every surface, seeming to drain the color even from the dark tree trunks. Most buildings on this side of the planet have been reduced to rubble. Anything reliably still standing is underground, though half of the mines and habitats below the surface have been flooded. Yet, here is an awkwardly leaning building, perhaps once a simple habitat of some variety. It is barely standing, having lost a wall and a half in a fire at some point, the roof has fallen in. Small rolls the Centaur into the husk of a house, hiding it from view from at least two directions.

They put some effort into camouflaging it, hoping it will still be there when they return. It is a risk abandoning it, but there are no bridges left and they need to cross a river. This is the best alternative they have.

Singh’s deep pockmarks resemble nothing so much as the battered road in the harsh light of the midday sun. He pats the vehicle and says something to it under his breath. Sees her watching, seems embarrassed, clears his throat, looks away. Begins to talk a little bit too loudly.

“So, just a couple of hours of march to the river then?”

Not for the first time she is reminded that technological objects are seen as more properly alive than she is by some people. The tech-priests especially. To her it is just a vehicle. Perhaps her condition prevents her from telling the difference between inanimate and spirited objects. Sometimes she wonders exactly where on the scale the servitors land, if she would be considered more alive with enough machine parts plugged into her even if her mind was effectively lost.

They gather their gear and head out, the frost covered grass crunching under their feet. The sunlight doesn’t warm them, seems cold somehow. She still enjoys it. She never saw much sunlight back on the hiveworld and though the novelty has worn off she finds the mild variety pleasant.

The ice on the river is thick, painted white with a thin layer of frost. Eade steps out on it first, tests it under his weight. It doesn’t protest so he heads out, leaving dark footprints as he disturbs the frost. They follow him, one after another, spreading out, taking care to not march in synch.

They have made it almost halfway across when she tenses, sensing something wrong just before the first thud from below. The ice cracks, holds their weight for a moment but creaks as the fissure grow longer, wider. They begin to run, no one wanting to be submerged, no one wanting to take a closer look at what it is below the surface that is trying to reach them.

The second blow sends large chunks of brown-tinged ice up into the sky, a glimpse of tentacles splashing up from the murky water below. The ice shifts under her feet, she stumbles, slips, leaps from unsteady footing, lands on solid ice but slides, feet submerging in the freezing water before she can scramble out of it. She gets up, counts the people she can see as she runs towards where Eade is pulling Small up from the water.

“Get your stupid metal arm up on the fucking ice already!”

Eade, Small, Roth, Singh, Coleman. Five. Fuck. She struggles out of her backpack, her heavy coat, throws them onto the ice. Turns, takes a deep breath, leaps from the ice, hears Eade swear behind her. Clasps her hands against one another, breaks the surface of the freezing water. The cold comes as a shock to her senses, tears away memories of pleasant comforts in an instant, but she is not alone down here.

“The Emperor made you this way to help regular humans.” Her mother’s words. Over and over. Belatedly she remembers the commissar’s orders about leaving the guardsmen to die if it ensured her safety. She could turn, could return to the ice, could make it to the other side of the river still. But she can see Wechsler struggling, held by an abnormally long tongue, butt of her weapon pressed against a massive row of fangs.

Her eyes firmly on the Beast of Nurgle she swims deeper, draws her sword, stops holding back. She unfurls, lets her aura spread, the way her untouchable superiors always encouraged her to do. Despite the cold digging into her skin, draining the strength from her muscles, she enjoys the relief. Like a flower opening up to greet the sun. The creature flinches, sensing her approach, the incoming void.

The water makes her slow, but it also washes away the worst of the foul fluids of the daemon. A more than acceptable trade. It tries to pull away, take its struggling prize with it, and the first cut only grazes it. It twists, tries to turn, but is graceless by its very nature and the stream is in her favor. The next cut is deep, the tongue cut nearly in half. Its grip loosened, Wechsler pushes herself free, kicks the creature right above the teeth for momentum and makes towards the surface.

The third cut only grazes one of the creature’s tentacles, and the fourth misses altogether as she is suddenly pulled upwards by a sharp yank at her ankle. Her vision is blurred by loose hair, the bun having come undone. Another yank and she goes further up towards the surface, realizes the guardswoman is not letting her finish the job, reluctantly relents. The creature tries to screech at them, releases toxins that no doubt would eat at their flesh if they weren’t washed downstream rather than up towards them.

No sooner do they break the surface than she hears Eade shouting at them.

Well.

At her.

“What in the Emperor’s fucking name do you think you’re doing?!” The volume is impressive. Objectionably loud. She shudders at the thought of him and the commissar in a shouting match.

Well.

Perhaps it’s just the cold water.

She fills her lungs with fresh air, pulls herself together again, makes her aura as small as it is going to get. Swims towards their significantly dryer companions. Wechsler releases something into the water, little red lights disappear down into the dark. Holly gets yanked up by her free arm as the explosion goes off, takes care to hold the sword away from Eade as he glares daggers at her. She only looks at him, waits. Unsure if she needs to defend herself.

“Are you trying to get us all executed?” he demands, dragging her away from the water and towards land. Behind them Singh and Small help Wechsler up onto the ice. Holly can’t see her backpack and coat anywhere. Worries that they have been lost.

“Are you listening?” he shakes her arm a little, his grip not particularly hard. Holding on to her, not hurting. She decides to allow it. Sheaths her sword.

“Yes,” she answers. Sees Roth and Coleman waiting on the frozen grass with what looks like her equipment. Relief. “There was a daemon.”

“Yeah, there was a fucking daemon,” he agrees, but his tone suggests that he has made a solid argument against her statement somehow. He turns his attention towards the duo waiting for them, raising his voice again. “Get moving!”

The five of them reach the shore without any further sign of the creature. Perhaps the explosives did the trick. Perhaps it has gone off find something less dangerous to play with. She doesn’t insist on investigating, pulls on her coat which only serves to get it wet, gathers up her backpack, puts it back on.

The pace they set is rushed, and it is not difficult to understand why. There is no shelter here, only an open field with a few malnourished trees here and there. Three of them are soaking wet and it is cold. Very cold.

Her teeth are chattering before they have even lost sight of the river. Small and Wechsler aren’t doing much better and they are moving slower. Small is trying to give his soaked companion a physical while on the move, and it is evidently not working out particularly well.

“Those always make me nauseous,” she hears the woman complain.

“Don’t care, you’re taking them,” the medic informs her, in a tone that would probably have had more authority if he wasn’t shivering so badly.

He jogs to catch up to her, she watches him approach, bottle in hand. She feels fine, tells him as much, but accepts the pills anyway. Swallows them dry. Preventative measures, perhaps more hope than science. Her lack of argument seems to satisfy him at least and he falls back, away from her and the discomfort of being close to her. She doesn’t comment, settles for pushing loose wet hair out of her face, trudging onward.

Their forced detour leads them to a hovel, half an hour’s walk from the river. It may once have been a storage unit, but half of it has collapsed and only three walls are standing. The roof has two large holes in it and doesn’t look entirely safe.

“This is the best that we’re going to get for a couple of hours walk,” Eade informs them. Resigned, as if admitting defeat, failure.

They make a fire, a bigger one, huddle around it on one side, lay out the content of their soaked packs on the other. Singh rigs up a makeshift rack to throw their thicker garments over. She sits wrapped in Eade’s absolutely massive coat, trying to angle her shoes so the insides will dry faster.

“Well, it’s no different from the barracks,” Coleman declares, shivering in his armor, his coat handed over to Small.

“I’m pretty sure I counted at least four walls in the barracks,” Roth says sullenly. She is the only one fully dressed, though seemingly unaware of the clearly unspoken rule that ensured that.

“I didn’t know your lessons had taught you to count all the way up to four,” Singh says, giving her a pat on the head. “I am _so_ proud!”

She slaps his hand away, glares, yet doesn’t seem genuinely upset. Holly opens her backpack, shifts through the content, organized in an unfamiliar way. She offers her spare socks to Wechsler and Small, though Small’s feet are obviously several sizes larger than her own. He squeezes into them nevertheless, fully aware of the importance of keeping your feet warm and dry.

She changes what garments she can behind the minor cover offered by the drying clothes, unconcerned but aware what her mother would think of the situation. Once she is clothed in thermal underwear and a shirt, not so much wet but damp, she returns to her spot by the fire. Wraps herself back up in the enormous coat, sits on her feet and digs in the backpack for a hair band. Can’t find any, grows increasingly frustrated. Empties the bag in her quest, certain they must have made their way to the bottom of the bag as small things do. Finds nothing.

“You missing something?”

She looks up at Eade who is eyeing the contents that was previously in her bag.

“The commissar had it packed,” she says. “I… think he forgot spare hair bands.”

Her hair hangs down to her shoulders, messy and drying quickly. She glances at Wechsler and not for the first time in her life wonders if maybe she should just cut her hair short instead. Roth reaches over and holds out a hair band in front of her.

“Here.”

She blinks, looks at Roth before reaching out and taking it, taking care not to touch the girl as she does so.

“Thank you.”

“I’ve got a whole bundle,” she assures her.

Holly nods, ties her hair up out of her face, begins to repack her bag. Notes that the conversation starts up again. The tension from the crossing of the river seeping away slowly. She settles in, listens but doesn’t interrupt. It feels familiar. Included but not invited. Not bad, all things considered. She has had worse assignments. Her eyes are half-closed as she watches the fire flicker and dance when Eade nudges her side. She looks up, surprised, he gestures towards Roth.

“Sorry?” she says, not having paid attention. Remembers to blink, tilt her head a little to the side. Wraps her arms a little closer around herself, more for show than warmth.

“Have you worked for commissar Lynch for a long time?” she says, clearly repeating the question.

“Oh,” she blinks, nods, realizes that is not the right motion, shakes her head. “No. Just this past month.”

“And before that?” Roth asks, her eyes big and inquisitive. Her interest seems genuine.

“My previous assignment is classified,” Holly says. An awkward silence follows. Palpable. She decides to try harder. “But the one before that was officially a diplomatic mission. In that I was assigned to a diplomat, for talks with the Eldar.”

They are listening, the awkwardness evaporated. She chooses the parts she can tell with care. There is no point in hiding that. They will understand. She is sharing, that is what matters. Showing that she is willing to make the effort if they offer her a place among them, despite her condition.

“Unofficially it was a sabotage mission,” she goes on. “I was the distraction.”

“I’m sure you were.”

Coleman’s tone is amused, suggestive, not hostile though. Still, Eade raises his hand in a threatening manner towards him, leans forward, into the other man’s personal space. Coleman raises both of his hands, palms towards his superior, suggesting surrender though his facial expression is less apologetic. The rest seem unconcerned with the silent exchange. She decides to ignore them, to press on. Smiles, soft and innocently. Head slightly tilted to the side.

“A whole room of them nearly lost control of their bowels when I unfurled.”

Confused looks meet her. A term they are unfamiliar with.

“I…” she hesitates, unsure if she should have mentioned it. “I try to hold back. I know that I make you uncomfortable. I can… stop doing that. Holding back. We are encouraged to learn to expand, but I never… liked it. It worsens the discomfort in others.”

“You did it under the water,” Wechsler says.

“Yes.”

“I nearly shat a brick,” she informs the rest of the group, smacking her thigh with a loud twap. Something akin to amusement in her voice as she talks, her hands moving excitedly. “It was like a cold, way worse than the water, just washed over me. I think I’d’ve liked to see the Eldars’ faces,” she chuckles, seems to bring the others along in her amusement.

Holly smiles, indulging. Familiar. Can’t laugh, never managed to make the sound properly. Would only weird them out if she tried.

She remembers her teeth tearing into the flesh of a warlock’s face. The mind-numbing horror etched into its fine features as she tore into them, the screams, the hapless flailing as fear overrode training.

She wouldn’t have done it if she hadn’t been disarmed, thrown across the room. It had been unbecoming. Embarrassing. Then the xeno had made the mistake thinking she was a lesser threat unarmed and with a concussion. Turned its attention away from her. It had cost her three teeth, but they had only lost two members of their ‘diplomatic’ party. The diplomat made it out of there unharmed. The mission had been successful. Her Inquisitor had been pleased.

Her tongue prods the new teeth she was fitted with afterwards. She would be the first to admit that she is lacking in social skills, but she is certain that that is a part of the story she should keep to herself.

They have never fought Eldar. Have questions. Roth in particular is overflowing with them. She complies, answers, tells them what she can. Admits that her condition gave her the upper hand, that it may be more difficult for them, their presence more of an affront than an abomination. Realizes that she has forgotten to emote for a while, yet none have recoiled. Still, she makes an effort to shift a little, move her eyebrows as she speaks, fidget with her fingers, move her mouth more than necessary to form the words.

By the time their clothes and most essential equipment have dried it is getting dark. They make camp properly in the half-collapsed building, eat, set up a guard schedule, inspect what part of the rubble can be burned. The uneven ground is even more disagreeable to lie upon than the floor of the Centaur, and yet she finds it surprisingly easy to fall asleep, even with Singh snoring only feet away from her.


	3. The 116th, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the very creative title suggests, chapter 2 became too long (and is still too damn long). It was humanely divided into two pieces with only the slightest bit of bloodshed. Unfortunately, it meant that most of the winging it ended up in this part and I spent 90% of the time editing mostly just enduring the nagging feeling that Everything Is Wrong. On a different note: if you thought we were done with the cannibalism? We were not done with the cannibalism.  
> And here’s an illustration of [Jarvis Eade](https://zenatness.tumblr.com/post/617393542806061056/jarvis-eade-from-the-warhammer-fic-that-im).

They travel on foot for two days, cross frozen fields, shelter in craters, shiver through the nights. On the third day she wakes to a thin layer of snow, grey skies, but no wind. Small mercies. After a few hours they reach a dead forest, shattered into dark splinters by air raid, familiar ichor lies splattered among the charred wood. They find a single arm, indicating that humans were here too, that perhaps all daemons were not eliminated before they moved in to burn the remains.

They slow down a little, take in the scene, search for threats, find none. She kneels down to take a closer look, smells the ichor, ensures that nothing twitches at her presence. More of Nurgle’s creatures, she observes. The stench is still noticeable, though it has been at least a week or two since they were eliminated. With excessive force, she notes with some approval. Remembers the insufficient ammo supply, moderates her opinion of the execution somewhat.

When she looks up she catches Eade looking at her, though he quickly looks away, clears his throat.

“Used to be a pretty big gathering here,” he tells her, turning back to her, pretending as if nothing is wrong. She wasn’t focused on her movement, probably unnerved him, should try harder. “We barely made it out of these woods alive last time. Most of the daemons that are left stay below ground in the mines, but sometimes we get pockets of them crawling out.”

She nods, acts as if this is new information.

“We spent the first months mostly dodging them while escorting civilians for extraction,” Roth tells her, sounds proud. Doesn’t seem to realize that odds are those civilians have been purged quite thoroughly, just in case.

“Helping people is good work,” Holly says, smiles and nods as if approving, gets to her feet again. Pretends that she is unconcerned while her mind races.

Eden 39. Minor mining colony, certainly no paradise. Suffers a daemon infestation, reasonably local though, not the whole planet, just around the area used for mining. The useful part, the part where people actually live. The mines also provide plenty of difficult underground terrain for the enemy to shelter in. Four regiments with a commissar each deployed, some air support, may or may not have known the nature of the problem before they arrived. Significant losses among the psykers. Only a single request for one untouchable.

It doesn’t add up.

A test by the Inquisitor? But why? He trusts her to retrieve heretical artifacts on her own. She has never been tempted, never disobeyed. Over a decade of loyal service and now a test? No. The idea is ridiculous.

She watches Roth walk with a little skip in her step ahead of her. Naïve and believing that she has done the right thing. Yes. Maybe. Holly runs the numbers through her head as they weave their way through cracked trunks.

If she remembers the commissar’s complaints right, they landed on Eden 39 six, seven months ago. Civilian extraction must have started more or less at once. The journey here took her a bit more than a month. She has been here about as long. Add some time for inevitable administrational fuck ups. That would mean that it took two, maybe even three months before she was requested.

Of course, such a request can be expected to attract attention. It did attract attention, whether or not the commissar is aware of whose. Naturally, no one _wants_ the Inquisition to turn their gaze upon their operation, no matter how squeaky clean they run it. They are notorious for the draconian measures they resort to. It is evident that this situation would lead to a distressing number of human casualties. Did command think they could genuinely save the civilians? Only filed the request that would attract the attention of the people they needed once the civilians were off the planet?

They couldn’t have been that foolish. That would be…

That would be soft. Kind. The logic of someone trying to do the right thing without seeing the big picture. She remembers what that was like.

She is certain that the Inquisitor is aware of the situation, has likely tracked the civilians down by now. Dealt with them and any potential threat to mankind lurking among them. What remains is command. Whose idea was it? Did any of them object? Did commissar Lynch request an untouchable because it would attract the right attention? Or merely because he is surrounded by daemons and unreliable psykers?

He has been uncommonly kind to her, that has to be said. Yet he isn’t afraid of her, which suggests he is either a better actor than she has given him credit for, or he has no clue who her actual superior is. Of course, he talks too freely with her in private. There is no fear that the information will be used against him. Indirectly trying to show his innocence, willingness to cooperate? Or a sign of ignorance?

Once more Holly is certain that she isn’t the right person for this task.

She isn’t here to hunt daemons, unfortunately. That would have been a straightforward and enjoyable mission. She would have been considered specialist support, not a bodyguard. Would have been informed of the nature of the mission beforehand.

Ah.

Yes. The Inquisitor has sent her here to await further instructions while he extracts whatever information he can from the civilians, their escorts. That makes sense. An assassination mission with an undecided target. Perhaps a retrieval mission if something interesting comes to light.

It is a relief to have an answer that makes sense. It might not be the right answer, but the nagging uncertainty that has plagued her for a month can be laid to rest until further evidence presents itself. She sees the world clearer, even as they journey deeper into the woods.

They take a roundabout route. The rest of the team is nervous, jumpy, expecting enemies that never show. The sleet pelts them the rest of the way. Two days and one night, never relenting. Warm enough to melt the frost, cold enough to freeze when the wind picks up.

The weather is distasteful, but the effort made traveling has been pleasant. The mud sucks onto their shoes, requires more effort to cross than the guardsmen like. During particularly bad patches they walk in each other’s footsteps, taking turns to lead. When they make camp at night her legs ache pleasantly from the effort. She does need the exercise.

The sleet is still coming down hard by the time they reach the edge of the shattered remains of a hamlet. Judging by the remnants it must have housed tens of thousands, perhaps more. All that remain is rubble and ruin. There is no sign of any survivors, any activity.

“This place was fucking crawling with daemons,” Wechsler says, sounding offended, as if she wanted the unwelcome guests to still be here.

“Minor incursions can die out on their own, with no humans to act as hosts,” she tells her.

“Hmm.” She sounds annoyed, but her glare is directed at the peaceful carcass of a settlement.

The first bodies that they find are old, more skeletons than anything else. Bones scattered here and there, wild animals likely having fed upon them, maybe daemons too. There is a brief argument between Eade and Wechsler in hushed tones once they reach a lone long wall with one faded white stripe running along it. Part of a building, battered by weather and air raid alike. It seems to be a familiar landmark to the rest of the team. Looks are exchanged, Singh approaches her hesitantly to quietly whisper.

“If you hear them call each other Mafalda and Jarvis, back away. That means mom and dad are fighting for real.”

She looks at him, bewildered.

“But he’s her superior officer?”

“Yeah, well, they grew up in the same tiny village, cousins of some variety, or several,” he shrugs, as if that explains anything. Perhaps to other people it does, people who grew up with extended families. “They can get pretty worked up.”

“But…” she trails off. Looks at Singh, the arguing couple, back to Singh.

“You’ve never argued with your superior?” he asks, sounds as if she’s said something silly.

“No,” she says, feeling a knot tighten in her stomach at the very thought. “I… have given advice and made suggestions. Never argued.”

He looks at her as if he has only just now realized that she is strange, abnormal. She wants to tell him, wants to explain. He hasn’t seen what she’s seen, hasn’t been stared down with those dreadfully pale, cold eyes. She spent years with other untouchables and none of them ever made her as uncomfortable as the Inquisitor does when angered.

Singh shrugs, takes a couple of steps away from her, waits. Finally, it is evident that Eade relents, but fishes out a lho-stick, lights it, before leading them onwards. The look on Wechsler’s face is difficult to read, seems to float somewhere between hard and concerned.

The next body they find is fresher. A couple of months maybe. The flesh has been pulled off the bones in chunks, the waterfilled eye sockets stare up towards the sky, a small hole on one side of the head, a large one on the other, exit wound. The psyker robes are the only recognizable trait left.

Holly looks at Wechsler, sees the clenched jaw, the furrowed brow, her eyes on Eade. Waiting for something that doesn’t come. He moves past the body, careful not to step on it, doesn’t look down, takes a final drag of the stump before flinging it away. The smoke exits his mouth slowly, a seemingly never-ending stream. The others seem to spare the body a little bit more attention. The girl in particular seems ill at ease, gripping her sniper rifle tight, Singh reaches out, puts a hand on her shoulder as they move past it.

“Yours?” she asks Small, keeping her voice down. He nods, doesn’t elaborate. She isn’t surprised, he doesn’t talk much when she’s close.

That is one then. The team had lost two psykers. If she remembers correctly, they were both put down because they lost control of their powers. The body is deteriorated, but there are no visible signs of mutations in the remains at least. She doesn’t stop to investigate further. It is irrelevant. The psyker is dead, decayed.

What they are looking for is not above ground. Large parts of the planet have been built underground, to stay out of the poor weather, to recycle used up mines. This hamlet was not quite at that stage just yet, the mine still active when the daemons appeared. The air raid has failed to collapse it, to put an end to the activity that has been recorded here, so someone needs to go in. They need to go in.

She has never been in a mine before, can’t imagine it being worse than the lower levels of a hiveworld. Listens as they go over the plan, listens to the wind pushing past the ruins, slowly unfurls, enveloping the team. One by one they flinch, Eade’s hand darts to his weapon, hesitates, Wechsler’s eyes go to her instantly, recognizes the unpleasant sensation.

“It will be safer for you,” she says quietly.

“Warn us next time,” Eade snaps. Frowns, looks at her, hesitates. “Sorry.”

Holly nods, moves the corners of her mouth a bit upwards, unconcerned. She has never encountered anyone who enjoyed the sensation. Relief, yes, tears of gratitude, a couple of times. Approval from her untouchable superiors, followed by frustration when they realized her limits, that she was more skilled at reducing her influence than expanding it. It is what it is. She is what she is.

The entrance chosen is half rubble, half a gaping hole. The door that once kept the weather out has been blown off its hinges, torn down to the floor, on top of people, she notes as she climbs over the damp remains. Bones, cloth, a simple ring on a withered hand. A crunch behind her, a curse. Coleman scrapes the human remains off his boot, face scrunched up in disgust. Sees her watching, gives her a demonstrative shrug. She isn’t sure what he means by that, decides it doesn’t matter. Continues onwards noiselessly, acutely aware that the rest are quiet but not silent. The shuffling of boots on the filthy floor, accidentally kicking a rock, breathing more pronounced than necessary. Stress preventing them from focusing properly. She understands but wishes they would let her scout ahead alone.

The upper layer of the mine has been converted into now abandoned homes or offices of some kind. Burrows carved out of the stone; walls uneven, manmade but only with the barest effort to smoothen them out. Like a particularly vicious parasite, eating its way into flesh. It smells damp, moldy. What furniture they find when they poke around have been eaten away at by water and time. The corpse they find on the second level appears to have exploded some time ago. Perhaps due the internal gasses building up inside over time as rot consumed it. Perhaps nothing quite so mundane. The ruins of a psyker’s robes can still be seen under it, having turned a brownish grey in the pool of water and remains where the corpse lies. The face is a cavity, though the back of the skull looks relatively intact.

A glance at her companions confirms it. Their second psyker. Or their first, judging by the decomposition. Which means that they made it this far earlier, before things went wrong.

Still no sign of any enemy. Eade was probably right. The psykers were a liability here. A lit candle in an otherwise dark room, alerting anyone paying the slightest bit of attention of incoming hostiles. Her aura envelops them like shadow as they continue their descent, their path illuminated by stablights.

There are puddles here and there, even four floors down. For a moment she entertains the idea that the dampness has seeped through the entire planet, that stale water is all that will be claimed from the stone surrounding them. Pushes the thought away, focuses on the here and now.

“There were bodies here last time,” Small whispers, looks nervously around the broad path they are on, towards the gaping hole at the center of the room. A drop of perhaps four meters. There are ladders, metal hammered into stone, though they seem as rusty and unreliable as the railing.

“There were bodies upstairs,” Roth answers, the uneasiness seeping into her voice.

“So why are these gone?”

No one has an answer, no one wants to speculate.

They are all startled by a sudden whir, dive for cover behind the railing, turn off their stablights as the mine’s lights flicker on. Level by level the light rises, starting low, illuminating one floor, the next, the next, the next, the top, still visible from where they are hiding. The whir settles into a steady hum.

A series of knee-high slabs in which the metal railing has been hammered into is all they have for cover. She looks at how far away they are spread, crawls out, squeezes herself past Small, into the middle of the group. She hears him suck in a sharp breath, steel himself, the discomfort of being so close to her while her aura is unfurled evident, yet he doesn’t move away.

The lights reach them well before the voices, long before they hear the footsteps below. Stablights tucked away, weapons drawn, a quiet prayer to the Emperor whispered through the medic’s gritted teeth.

She fishes a smooth piece of metal out of her pocket as she removes her backpack, lies it down on the floor, slips out of her thick coat. They will only hold her back. The thin metal is small enough to fit in her hand, dulled edges, polished. She raises her hand, holds the metal in her fingertips, angles it so she can see below, a small window into the unknown, safer than poking your head out. The people that emerge from one of the hallways are talking in hushed voices, looking around. She counts eight of them, some with visible mutations, dressed in ragged greys, stained and well-worn, armed but not visibly armored. Not deserters, she concludes. Locals.

Locals that should be dead or surrendered for evacuation.

Hostiles, then.

Or mutants too afraid to surrender.

She signs to the rest of the team, lets them know what she sees. Roth signs for another four incoming from a different path, Holly angles her makeshift mirror, spots the quartet. One is limping noticeably, seems agitated, arguing with his slouching companion, the other two trailing behind.

Twelve. Against six guardsmen with the higher ground, cover, the element of surprise, and her. Those would be good odds if it wasn’t for the known daemon activity in the area. She looks at Eade next to her, his grim expression suggesting that the latter element is a bigger concern than she might expect. She leans in, notes that he doesn’t flinch away from her, keeps her voice low.

“They won’t be able to summon anything if I’m up close to them.”

He turns his head towards her, meets her eyes, a bit too close with her leaning in. Seems to try to read her face, finds nothing useful there. This is neither the time nor place to bother with emoting, it is a waste of energy, of focus.

“You sure?”

“Just don’t shoot me.”

He nods, takes a deep breath, gestures for her to go ahead. She doesn’t wait to see what orders he signs to the rest, begins to move quietly, pulling her aura in towards her as she leaves the team behind, not wanting it to give herself away by accidentally reaching an unseen enemy. The railing provides some cover, but she has to stay low, take care as she crosses rubble and puddles. The path slopes downwards, until it comes to an abrupt stop, only a rusty metal ladder leading down. A peek over the railing with the metal mirror reveals that the group is still there, discussing something. Three have edged away from the rest, further away from her position. There’s not much in the way of shelter down there though, only a few slabs of rock, and there is a lot of ground to cover.

She doesn’t like fighting groups, particularly not humans. It isn’t that she is bad at it, so much as it brings back bad memories. She still dreams of fighting the gangers in the bowels of an unremarkable hiveworld. In her dreams she can feel her arms grow tired, too quick, too soon. Then the sudden sharp, burning agony as las fire hits home, tears through her chest, shredding her lung.

She hadn’t been afraid of dying. Had been young and naïve, not yet having realized that people die meaningless deaths all the time, no matter who or what they are. Even as she was coughing up her own blood, three gangers standing above her, angry and armed, she had been certain that she was not going to die. She hunted daemons, renegade psykers, xeno, anyone who threw their lot in with Chaos. She was not going to die. Not to ordinary humans who just got lucky, who didn’t even understand the terror she instilled in those that wielded powers drawn from the warp.

But they had known what she was. Had kicked her about a bit while she wheezed on the ground, revenge for fallen comrades, punishment for refusing to tell them where her team was. Her vision had blurred from the blows. She doesn’t remember which one said the words, but in her dreams it is the one who wore human ears as earrings.

“I hear if you drink the blood of a blank, daemons can’t touch you.”

In her dreams she fumbles for the micro-bead, fingers stiff, difficult to coordinate, but she isn’t sure if she ever managed to call for help. Some nights all she can hear is static, other times it is the familiar pleading of teammates she has killed.

She didn’t scream. The disconnect between her feelings and her body is so great that despite the agony of fingers digging into her wound, no more than mere gasps passed her lips as she weakly tried to fend them off. In her dreams she screams. Screams until her throat is raw.

This is different, she reminds herself. She is not alone. Has to trust the guardsmen not to abandon her if she fails, if she falls. She pockets the metal again, glances back at her companions; sees that they have spread out. Coleman gives her a thumb’s up, a smile. She settles for responding with a nod, unable to muster the effort of responding in kind. Still keeping low she tentatively puts a foot onto the ladder, prioritizing being quiet. The first step holds, the second, the third, the ninth creaks and she drops to the ground, rolls. The guardsmen open fire, giving her the distraction that she needs.

She staggers up, not caring for appearances, only efficiency. Her legs do most of the work of getting her up and running towards the six individuals she can see. Her hands move independently, drawing her sword, her eyes darting between members of the group as they begin to scatter, try to find cover. Two return the fire from above, another sees her, lets out a shout, a warning. She unfurls, legs pounding beneath her as she heads towards them, the unevenness of the wet ground determining her trajectory.

One of the more heavily mutated individuals gets her lasgun up and aims at her before Holly has time to close the gap. The woman’s head explodes in a shower of bone and brain, painting the companions she was trying to protect in her remains as her body seems to hesitate, takes a moment to stumble forward, collapse. Five.

The body twitches, tries to get up, hands pushing it out of the grimy mud, the open skull wound oozes rather than bleeds. Six. Not mere mutants. She hears curses from above, knows that they have seen it too. Holly leaps sideways, slides a little on the slippery ground, dodges a hail of las fire with more luck than skill. The woman’s remains flinch as her aura engulfs it, the oozing slows, the semblance of unnatural life snuffed out like a fire deprived of air. Movement ceases. Five.

Las fire is raining down from above, tearing into the enemies who haven’t found cover. The closest mutant is about to fire at her when her aura reaches him and he staggers backwards. Abnormally strong reaction. Psyker or otherwise touched by the warp. She takes a couple of steps further in her path, reaches the woman’s now still body, uses it to get solid footing, leaps off it, towards the panicking group.

He sees her coming, expects the blow when she raises her sword, brings up his lasgun to block her. Expects her to fight like he would, like normal people do. She doesn’t. Arms and legs work independently, the concept of balance a suggestion more than a requirement. Her trajectory brings her down sooner than he expects, knees bend under the weight, but her sword arm cuts upwards, independent, separate, a puppet string yanked without warning. The blade cuts into the underside of his forearm, unprotected flesh sliced open by sharp metal, bone gives way under the concentrated force. She follows with a quick, sharp slash towards his stomach, a c-shape, starting high from the right, ending low by his hip on the same side. He is only wearing cloth, has no mutation that provides his guts with any more protection than a normal human.

Her legs pushes her upwards, forwards, her left hand grabbing the three-fingered hand that still weakly clings to the lasgun. Hears the shriek of pain intensify, sees the abnormally small eyes widen. Doesn’t hear what he tries to say, sinks her sword deep into the gaping stomach, aiming upwards as intestines tumble onto the ground. They spill out, writhing, foul smelling, more so than usual. The color is odd, she notes as she withdraws her sword, kicking the mutant’s leg as she does, pulls his arm, spins him away from her, spraying his closest companion with blood. Dark splotches on the guts, like internal boils. It is distracting enough that a spray of las fire clips her, her armor taking the worst of it.

Her eyes lock with the gunman, his grey face too small for his body yet too long. He’s found cover behind a large boulder, protected from the barrage from above. He’s not the only one. Four of them have managed to squeeze in there, but there is barely room for all of them.

Holly drops the mutant, hears a last wheeze escape his lungs, no movement follows. Turning her focus to the group she charges, knows it’s up to her to flush them out, no matter what she feels about the situation.

She closes the distance quickly, sinking her blade into the shoulder of one of the mutants, cutting skin, flesh, bone. Too deep. A mistake. She yanks the sword out, the bones forcing an awkward and wide angle, another ducks to avoid getting even the most shallow of slashes as she moves with the force of the swing. They are not running, she notes as she delivers slashes and cuts, shallow, hampered by her need to parry their blows.

They think they are safer here, with her, rather than out there in full view of the guardsmen.

They are wrong.

One of them seems to realize their mistake as she reaches for something beyond reality, finding only silence. The woman is too slow in her surprise, Holly kicks her knee from the side, sending her to the ground, ignores the scream, uses the woman’s shoulder to push herself upwards, feels the weak body sink underneath her weight. She comes down hard on a surprisingly ordinary looking man, plants her boot firmly into his chest, pushing him over, but the sword cuts the grey skinned man next to him, taking three fingers from his outstretched hand.

The landing is awkward, the man under her loses his footing, she rolls with him, sideways, away from him, hears the las fire but doesn’t feel it. It is followed by the screams of the man who went down under her weight, the agony in his voice revealing he has learned firsthand that friendly fire is a misnomer. Too many inexperienced with fighting in close quarter bundled up together, suits her just fine.

There is an explosion behind her, so far away that it is of no consequence, but it distracts the grey skinned man enough that she can sink the sword through his chest, pull him along with her, keep him between her and the other mutants. The blow should have been fatal, but there is too little resistance. His organs are not where they should be.

Holly shoves him off her sword, ducks a blow from his horned companion, lets the momentum push her sideways, slashes at the horned one’s legs. He has a face filled with protrusions, probably a body full of them too, judging by how his clothes hangs on him. She gets her answer as soon as she moves up, tries slash him across his back. The protrusions are hard, bone-like, will require more effort than a slash if she is to get through them.

She gets an elbow to the face for her efforts, feels the burn of skin being torn open. Another hornlike growth, no doubt. She follows the energy of the blow, sword dropping low, catching the mutant’s shin as she slips away, spins, slashes at the woman who is still on her hands and knees, opening her neck, a burst of too dark blood bursting forth. Holly pulls back her sword, high, sharp, sudden, hears the satisfying crunch of nose cartilage breaking, the horned man cursing. Her jerky movements are difficult to predict, a strength rather than a weakness in a fight.

“Why can’t I-?” she hears the woman wail, hands pressing on her neck, trying to keep the blood in. It smells foul.

Holly can feel the tugging on reality, the woman struggling to reshape the here and now, probably intending to mend her body, or turn it into a gateway for something worse. Another two slashes aimed at her puts an end to it, to her, but focusing on one enemy keeps her too still, is a poor strategy, however urgent. The heavy blow misses her head, but hits her back hard, the force of it is enough to send her sprawling. She catches herself on the dying woman, uses her weight to slide rather than fall into the slimy blood-mingled liquid that covers the ground. Her back aches, knows it is going to be an ugly bruise, the agony of broken bone is absent though, perhaps adrenaline keeping it at bay. It will do.

The grey skinned man is holding his lasgun the wrong way, must have hit her with the butt of it. Has evidently learned from the mistake of firing it so close to his companions, perhaps struggling to handle it with missing fingers. Their eyes meet, she sees fear, regret, an understanding of what is to come. He breaks, makes a run for it. Doesn’t make it more than four steps before las fire tears him apart. One.

Fire engulfs the horned man as she snaps her attention over to him. Pale yellow flame, blinding, his body an outline in the light. The heat of it hits her with almost the same force as the blow to her back. Holly gets to her feet, steps backwards, sideways, watches the horned man fall to the ground, shrieking.

Coleman gives her a toothy grin, fires up his flamer again. She returns the smile, the effort incomplete. It is more accurate to say that she shows her teeth. He seems more focused on burning the mutant than her expression though, too busy to notice her shortcomings.

There’s a loud creak, a thud, a couple of curses she would not repeat in front of her superiors. Eade gets to his feet, throws the loose rusty ladder rung across the room with a disgusted grunt, readies his weapon and circles around to assist Coleman in dispatching the last of the mutants.

Five, six. Another five dead further away, dealt with without her assistance. She walks over to the bodies, nudges them with her foot, one after another. Sees only one that moves, tries to crawl, stops as she reaches it. Holly gives it a couple of stabs for good measure. The rest have no reaction to her presence. Eleven.

Eleven.

Her eyes dart around, searching. There are multiple exits, no indication where the twelfth went. Wiping the blood from her sword on her already soiled pantleg she lets out a low, frustrated wheezing hum. So far, this place has been built like a labyrinth, winding corridors, sudden stops. Unpredictable, and worse – the enemy’s home turf. Sword sheathed again she peeks down the hallways, illuminated by the building’s own lights. Surely the creature would have the advantage if it cut the lights? Knows where to run, where to hide, would see them coming with their stablights.

The screams from above cuts through her worries, punctuated by las fire. She turns around on her heel, one foot pushing, the other pivoting her towards the noise.

Twelve.

The lurching man is still wearing the remains of his moldy grey robes, but he’s stretched himself up, impossibly tall, body not entirely human, twisted, warped. Symbols carved into flesh. She leans forward, begins to run, liquid splashing as she crosses the room. The ladder is too far away, will take too long to reach.

“Eade! Boost!” she shouts.

He seems to understand what she means, quickly glances at her, hurries towards the wall, drops his weapon at his feet, makes a step out of his hands, knees bent. He holds still, making it easy to leap onto his hands, get a good footing. She pushes upwards, as he does the same, sending her flying up the wall. Too high, she realizes too late. Both of them attempting to compensate for the other.

She comes down on the railing hard, slamming into it, knocking the air out of her lungs, the armor mercifully spreading out the impact, saving her ribs. Her hands manage to grab a hold of the metal as she begins to slide, the momentum of the leap lost. The screams haven’t stopped. Are no longer screams of surprise. Fear, pain. A girl’s screams, high pitched, panicked.

_Move_.

Her legs respond, kicking against the wall, arms heave, she scrambles over the bent metal railing, rolls onto the rubble. Draws her sword again as her legs push her up, the unsteadiness giving her momentum sideways and forwards. The creature has its back turned to her, the pale purple warp shield flickering as it blocks the incoming las fire. It claws at Roth who is trying to use her rifle as a shield, a poor choice but she has nothing else at hand, is trapped underneath the daemonhost. Its shield breaks with a snap without warning as Holly charges, her aura tearing it out of existence. The creature jerks as the guardsmen’s fire finally tears into it, shrieks as she closes the distance.

She dodges the blow it throws at her, wild and without aiming. It senses that she is near but has not had time to turn and see. Her sword cuts into its arm, slashes its side. She circles it, tries to lead its attention away from Roth, the girl taking the chance to kick at the ground, crawl backwards, blood pouring down her face, her arms. Holly pushes the girl out of her mind. Focuses.

Here and now. Daemon wearing a man’s flesh. Weakened and limited to realspace as long as she is near. 

What the Emperor made her for.

It roars at her, spittle flying, missing her by inches as she lets her right leg fold under her without warning, tumbles, rolls up to her feet as it approaches. Knows to keep clear of fluids from Nurgle’s creatures. It swipes at her, scratching the armor, earning a slash at its face in return. In the corner of her eye she can see Singh grabbing Roth by the collar, dragging her away.

A couple of rounds of las fire hit the monstrosity in the back, Small and Wechsler. It tears into its arm, its back, yet it doesn’t fall. She takes the opportunity to leap up, cutting upwards, cutting into its jaw, deep, hard, bone giving way, teeth, blood, skin torn loose as she grabs on to its shoulder, kicks the railing to push herself higher. It shrieks as she clings to it, swinging, trusting the guardsmen not to shoot her as she tries to hold on. The closer to her, the looser the connection to the warp, the easier it is to kill.

It’s awkward, but she twists with the momentum, manages to get a leg over its one shoulder as it writhes, tries to shake her off. It bends forward as she holds on with one hand, one leg, free hand slashing at its arm and head. It rises to its full length suddenly, the force of it making her airborne for a moment, her grip slips, a clawed hand reaches for her leg. She goes limp in all but her arms and hands, its claws grazing her leg as she slips off the creature and she stabs downwards.

The sword sinks deep into the flesh between clavicle and sternum, a killing blow on a mortal, yet the creature seems only inconvenienced. As bone and metal prove hard and unyielding, her weight suddenly becomes an anchor pulling the daemonhost backwards as she refuses to let go of the sword. It stumbles backwards, smashes into the railing behind it, hard. She takes the brunt of the blow, trapped between it and the rusty steel between them and a four-meter drop, feels how the metal pressing into her back bend before she hears the creak.

Fuck.

The railing gives, the weight of the daemonhost presses down on her, over her, drags her down with it as it goes over the edge, the sword slipping as the angle changes. Like a puppet master dropping the strings she lets go of her body, lets it relax completely. Resisting gets you injured, and dropping control of her body is easy, easier than moving like a normal human. They twist in the air, the fall taking no time at all and yet an eternity. With a prayer to the Emperor in her mind she lands, hip first, slams into the flesh of the bony daemonhost, bounces, rolls off it.

She pulls one foot up under her, pushes herself up out of the gory puddle, staggers to the side, blowing what air is left in her lungs out through her nose, quick and sharp. Takes a deep breath through her mouth, spits, doesn’t want the liquid inside of her, knows it can be deadly in its own right. A quick glance around doesn’t reveal the whereabouts of her sword, so she draws a knife. Shorter, sturdier, more suited for cramped surfaces than open areas like this.

The daemonhost gets to its feet, one arm hanging limp by its side but otherwise seemingly unconcerned about the fall. At the edge of her vision she can see the two guardsmen throwing themselves headlong into shelter behind the boulder that previously protected the mutants. Has to assume that the enemy has seen them too.

Knife in hand she steps forward, eyes on the daemonhost, watches it hesitate, uncertain if it wants to get into melee with her. She doesn’t let it make the decision, charges, just as a well-aimed shot from above tears through one of its knees. Still it tries to take a swipe at her as she closes the distance, she pushes her left foot down, leans, catches herself late with her right. Purposely stumbles, moves her head out of the way, dodging with relative ease. Another shot hits its already injured shoulder, tearing flesh, shattering bone. She can read the agony on its face, its expression more human in its final moments than she could ever manage.

They find a rhythm, the guardsmen and her. Carefully aimed shots that are only fired when she is on the opposite side of the daemonhost tear through sinew, muscle, bone, as she cuts, stabs, slices, denies its connection to the warp. She half-trips, half-rolls over the creature’s weakened arm as it makes a final, pitiful attempt at eviscerating her. Two shots hit from separate directions once she touches the ground, rolls, rises as the body collapses, its head a gaping hole.

She stands above it, motionless, watching it slowly bleed out as Coleman comes out of his hiding spot, flamer at the ready. The blood comes slowly, seems thick. Her aches and pains are coming back to her, reminding her of blows, falls, cuts. Demanding attention she would prefer not to give. With a start she realizes that Coleman and Eade are watching her, hesitating. She shifts mental gears, picks up the strings, starts up with a jerk, like a servitor that has just been rebooted. Smiles, nods, steps aside to let the strangely bearded guardsman incinerate the remains.

Eade reaches out, big hand patting her shoulder. One, two, hand glides away, casually. As if she is one of the team, as if she is normal. He smiles at her, so she smiles back, doesn’t comment as he passes her, jogs towards the ladder.

The ghost of the touch lingers, feels strange, alien, welcome, missed. She tries to remember when last someone touched her voluntarily, without intent to heal, harm, protect.

She racks her brain, digging through memories. The sister of battle?

She had been trying to fend off the gangers, failing pitifully. The wall had exploded, the sister of battle bursting through as the rubble flew, shooting anyone still standing. It had all been a blur. Afterwards she had bent down over Holly. With the flickering light behind her, the dust dancing and obscuring, the sister in her polished armor had looked like the Emperor himself standing above her. Holly _had_ been kicked in the head when she was down though and was suffering blood loss. That had probably played a part. And yet.

The larger woman had gathered her up in her arms, carried her without complaint. As if she was a small child. Once the medic had patched her up the sister had squeezed her shoulder, firm, friendly, unforced. Had done it for no other reason than to show respect, regardless of what Holly was.

In her nightmares the woman never arrives.

That had been long ago. She had been, what, twenty-one? Twenty-two?

So many years ago. She was untouchable indeed.

And yet.

She reaches up, touches her shoulder as if she is cold, as if she can recreate the feeling of a friendly touch. She hears the thud of boots hitting ground, blinks, lets her hand fall down to her side again, turns. Wechsler is approaching, her expression difficult to read.

“That was probably the weirdest shit I have ever seen,” she says, gesturing with her hands at Holly. “You move like a ragdoll.”

Holly considers the words; knows they are true. Might not be said with the intent to hurt her feelings. Though admittedly most assume she doesn’t have feelings in the first place.

“It’s effective,” she says. “Fewer injuries, confuses people, more difficult to predict.”

She shrugs, ignores how her back objects to the movement, musters up a smile, soft, but no raised eyebrows. Too soft and harmless unnerves people under these circumstances. The cut on her cheek stings as the muscles move and pull on the skin. Doesn’t mention that the jerky movements come naturally to her, isn’t a taught tactic, allowed by her teachers because it works but not encouraged.

Wechsler looks at the charred remains, nods. “I suppose it is.”

Once certain that none of the bodies are going to do anything but decompose, they climb the unreliable ladder, up to the rest of the team. Roth sits on the ground, helmet in her lap, head angled to give Small a better view of the damage. His metal hand pushes a sizable piece of skin back into place on her cheek, threaded needle in his flesh hand.

Alive, not unharmed. It is enough.

“Is it going to scar?” Roth asks, a faint tremble in her voice as the needle digs into flesh, again and again. Neat, even, smeared with blood.

Small winces at her words, evidently not relishing the answer he is going to have to provide.

“Without a doubt,” he informs her after a few more stitches, evidently wishing he could give her a different answer. Cuts the thread, wipes the blood away, reaches for the antiseptic paste. There are tears in her big brown eyes, though she is evidently trying to hold them back.

Singh rises to his feet, wanders over as Small applies the paste over the stitches. Bends down, ruffles Roth’s hair, not overly gentle.

“Who’s all grown up and a proper guardsman?” he grins at her, his voice melodic yet not singing. Friendly teasing.

“Eat a dick, Singh,” Roth hisses in return, smacks away his hand. Fumes as he laughs, walks past them, towards the rest of them. Holly watches quietly, accidentally catches Singh’s eye as he approaches. He mouths something to her, nods, smiles. She smiles in return, not sure what he intended to say. Roth glares daggers at his back, but the oppressive mood has shifted, tears will remain unshed.

Eade clears his throat. The rest turn to look at him, Holly follows their cue.

“That might not be all of them,” he reminds them. “And we made quite a bit of noise, so cautiously forward, alright?”

Murmured agreements, people getting to their feet, weapons checked, reloaded. Small takes a moment to apply the antiseptic paste over the cut on Holly’s cheek, evidently not enjoying the proximity but determined to do his job. She remains still, takes care to blink and not look directly at him, ignores the sharp sting of the paste. It is over in a few seconds, he retreats quickly.

“Thank you,” she says, nevertheless.

“Yeah, no, thank you.”

“Bleak?” Wechsler calls out for her, but her eyes are on the open space below them.

“Yes?” she approaches, having been summoned, wanting to give Small the space he evidently desires.

“That your sword?” the other woman gestures over at a rubble filled puddle, something shiny in it reflecting the artificial light.

“Could be,” she agrees, hopes that it is. Doesn’t want to slow everyone down searching for the sword, but knows she can’t leave it behind either. She turns to grab her discarded equipment, hesitates when she sees that Eade and Roth are standing next to it. The sergeant has his arm around the girl’s shoulders, seems massive so close to her, is talking quietly to her. It seems like a private conversation, but at the same time Holly doesn’t want to slow everyone down. She slips forward silently, reaches for her coat, her backpack.

“- like that and lived, you know? But I want you in the middle of the group going forward,” Eade says, glances at Holly as she retreats to give them space. She regrets her decision, feels that she should probably have waited, but it’s too late now. “Let us know if you feel dizzy.”

Once she’s put on her coat and donned her backpack she climbs down, investigates. The rest follow down the ladder, one by one, ready to move on. The mood is still different than usual, the tenseness of the fight seemingly not quite yet dispelled.

The Emperor provides. It is her sword. She wipes it down best she can, sheathes it. Joins the guardsmen again as they begin to travel deeper into the mine. She has made less of an effort to emote for them than the commissar, all things considered, yet they seem less troubled when she falls short. Perhaps because they are a group, not alone with her.

No.

She has worked with plenty of groups who found her exceedingly unpleasant to be around. Made it quite clear. The previous team avoided her whenever they could, suspected her a spy. Once they had gone out for an evening off, left her and the very nervous psyker behind, not shy of making their disdain for the two of them known.

She hadn’t minded staying behind, but she could feel the skinny man’s fear in the air. Had been forced to tell him that she wasn’t going to hurt him, had offered to leave the room but that had only made it worse, the terror of being alone apparently worse than her. Hadn’t wanted her there, but everyone else was gone.

He had taught her a card game, played with some difficulty at a distance from each other. She was fairly certain he cheated more than once but hadn’t cared enough to call him out on it. When the others finally returned they didn’t address either of them, yet he leapt to his feet, eager to be around actual people.

She had felt a twinge of regret as she buried her knife in his chest once the elimination order came, watching his life slip away. The rest of the team was of no concern. It was business. Her Inquisitor had given her an order, and that was that. They were no more people to her than she was to them.

“You’ll let us know if you’re injured, right?”

Singh’s voice brings her back to the present, she turns her head, seems him next to her. Well. Six feet from her, but still.

“Yes,” she assures him, quickly fidgets with a damp sleeve. She has aches and pains, no doubt she is covered in bruises, but nothing that feels serious. Nothing she needs to trouble them with, but she appreciates the concern.

It takes hours, carefully combing through the twists and turns of the not quite abandoned mine. They come across another dozen individuals, mostly mutants, all unarmed, with weeping sores and pus filled boils. Whatever connection to the warp, to Chaos, that they reach for fail, no daemons come to their aid. No mercy is offered. The air feels unpleasant as they descend, rebreathers are donned, their caution rewarded as they step into a vast room deep in the bowels of the cavern. Walls and altar alike are covered in fungus, rot, human remains, every solid surface twitching, turning, difficult to look at. Roth is promptly ordered to guard their backs.

“Coleman, let me borrow your flamer,” Holly says.

“You sure?” he hesitates. It looks heavy but she assures him that she is sure. That they should step back. He gives her a quick rundown on how to use it. It isn’t her first time handling one, but it evidently gives him comfort to show her. Keeps his eyes and mind on a task.

“Do you want backup?” Eade asks, looking at her not the room.

“It’s alright,” she says, shifts the weight of the unfamiliar weapon in her hands. “Back up to a safe distance, don’t look too closely. It will get worse when I step away from you.”

She can feel the weight of it, feels the corruption pressing in, knows it is worse for them. She tilts her head to the side, shrugs, tries to convey a smile even if her face is covered.

“I’ve got no soul to corrupt. I’ll be fine.” Omits that her body and mind can still be irreparably damaged.

He hesitates, nods, gives the order for the rest to fall back. They step over the fresh corpses of the people that tried to keep them from reaching this room, disappears from view. Holly turns to look at the dripping, oozing, twitching room.

Revolting.

Reality hesitates before snapping into place as she steps further in, her presence doing the heavy lifting, the fire taking care of the rest. This is what she was made for, a living weapon. She spares the slimy tome on the altar one, two seconds, flipping it open with a knife. The daemonhost had been weak, too tightly bound or just a lesser daemon wrestled into a human’s body, but still a threat. Still heretical. Created with dangerous knowledge. The writing in the tome has some similarity with the material she discovered and destroyed three years ago. Most of the symbols are different, but she recognizes the one meant for the chest. Hopes that it is the only copy as she sheathes her knife, aims her weapon at it. 

The flamer roars, dries out the dampness, burns fungus and flesh alike, leaves ashes, sooth, stone, and bone behind. She stands in a room of swirling ash as the flamer runs out of fuel, painted in greys and blacks. The pressure has eased up, but it still pulsates like an irregular heartbeat. Fire can’t destroy the core of the altar, the stone refusing to crack. Holly lets the guardsmen know that she’s done what she can via micro-bead. Waits while Wechsler places detonations around the scorched altar while trying not to look at it.

The Inquisitor would approve of their dedication, she thinks as they head out of the room, continue their search.

All goes according to plan, until they kick open an uneven wooden door, the material weak and very clearly made of planks recycled from elsewhere. The room beyond it is not empty.

The boxes are stacked neatly, the wood discolored but still bearing the stamp of three of the four regiments back at base.

Coleman lets out a muffled whistle behind his rebreather as she holds her breath. Ammunition, dataslates, provisions, explosives, lasguns.

The rest of the team trickles into the room, cautiously, checking for traps, hidden enemies, finally declares the room clear. Turn their attention to the content of the crates. Holly stays by the broken door, eyes never having strayed, mind racing.

There aren’t supposed to be any bridges left and the river is wide, separates this region from the base. They are far from the base to boot. Transporting all of this equipment would be impossible without being discovered. Should be impossible, she corrects herself as the guardsmen cracks the first crates open, learn that they are accurately marked.

She sees two alternatives. Either it is a coordinated effort with the mutants and a large number of the guards. Someone in charge of vehicles is involved, either directly or merely bribed to fudge the numbers, to not pay too close attention every now and again.

Or. Or it suggests that there are underground tunnels connecting the old mines, deep below the surface, further down than the river runs. The mutants in cahoots with, perhaps, a smaller number of guardsmen. Perhaps a few of their own masquerading as guardsmen, pilfering, smuggling the stolen items back here.

She likes the second alternative less. If things are going out, something can also come in. Undetected, passing security unnoticed. No perimeter defense is going to help if the enemy can stroll in unannounced, unheard, unseen.

The hushed conversation draws her attention at last. The guardsmen are talking amongst each other, Wechsler and Coleman holding explosives, ammo. Roth glances at her, quickly looks away again.

Realization dawns on her. She is making them nervous. Looks at them, the crates, reads the mood. Nervous not because of what she is, but because of who she is. An extension of the commissar.

“We should take what we can carry,” she says, her tone even and casual, as if she hasn’t noticed their uncertainty. Remembering the commissar’s complaints, she continues, putting her backpack down, opening it. “Prioritize ammo. Leave the rations, they are likely contaminated.”

The tension broken their hushed conversation ends, they begin to move, talking in regular volume once more. She watches Wechsler fill her bag with an alarming number of explosives, is genuinely impressed when the woman finally shoulders the bulging backpack without a hint of discomfort.

The looting doesn’t bother her, in truth. As far as she is concerned this belongs to the regiments and they are part of the regiments. Despite telling them to prioritize ammunition she takes a single dataslate as well. If it can reduce the amount of time the commissar spends shouting at the quartermaster, it is worth it.

Once they reach the upper floors Wechsler sets off the explosions below, one, two. Altar, walls. The ground trembles, the lights flicker, dust fall, but the mine itself remains. As they exit into the fresh air it feels as if a damp towel she hadn’t noticed up until now slips off her shoulders. Judging by the others deep breaths, glances back, and quick pace as they leave, they feel it too.

The journey back is slower, their packs heavier, but the Emperor provides, and the vehicle is still where they left it. Part of the roof has fallen in and they spend the better half of an hour clearing the debris to get it out, but no one complains. Manual labor is preferable to walking back to base.

The ride back is no more comfortable than the one that took them out into the wasteland. Again, she watches as the guardsmen one by one nod off. She remains awake, unable to relax enough to follow suit. Not accustomed to napping. Once they slow down on the third day, rolling up to the base in the early morning, she is significantly wearier than her companions. She doesn’t complain.

They come to a halt, open the door from the inside, wait as the guards approach them cautiously. She listens to their footsteps, the way they slow briefly once they get close enough to sense that something is wrong, her presence in the vehicle. Isn’t surprised to see weapons drawn once they come into view. Confusion, hesitation. Instincts putting them on high alert, their eyes unable to identify the threat.

“Send word to commissar Lynch that his untouchable has returned,” she says, looking at the nervous men and women. They seem to connect the dots. Two of them stand up straighter, lower their weapons. One woman puts her hand on a nervous looking young man’s upper arm, gently pushes it down, lowering his lasgun.

“Yes, ma’am,” she says, nods.

They are waved through, close the door as they begin to roll again.

“Bit jumpy, aren’t they?” Singh harrumphs, clearly not caring for having lasguns aimed at him by his own allies.

“My fault,” she says, smiles apologetically. He raises his eyebrows, grimaces a little, shrugs. Seems to think that communicates something clearly enough that words are unnecessary. It doesn’t but she chooses not to ask.

They exit the vehicle yawning and stretching. She grabs her backpack, rolls her shoulders to shift the weight of it a little. Bids the 116th goodbye, turns to leave.

A hand on her arm stops her, though the grip is gentle, releases as she stops and turns. She glances down at the retreating hand, a little surprised, looks up at Eade, waits.

“I just wanted to thank you,” he says, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets. Smiles. She returns the smile, as is expected. “I’m certain your presence prevented casualties. And I know you didn’t have to go into the field, so… Thank you.”

She nods, senses that something more is expected of her.

“It was not an unpleasant experience,” she says. “Cold and daemons aside.”

He looks like he is about to say something but snorts instead, nods.

“Forward my thanks to the commissar, will you?”

“Of course,” she agrees, though she isn’t sure she will. Is fairly certain he won’t care.

They part ways, she walks through the camp undisturbed, people moving out of her way subconsciously. She returns to the quarters she shares with the commissar, acknowledges the guards by the door with a nod, wipes the worst of the mud off her shoes. Finds herself a little uncertain what she is to do with her backpack and its content. Decides to bring it to her room, lay it out for the servitor in the morning. Most of it needs cleaning anyway. She needs cleaning.

She wipes down her weapons first, her hands working automatically as her mind returns to the issue of the stolen goods, has no new information, no new theories. Sword, knives, sidearm. Holsters. She tried to keep them in order while in the field, but eventually the cleaning rag did little more than move the filth around. Once satisfied she places them on top of the dresser, evenly spaced, parallel.

She undresses, folds her clothes in two neat piles for easy collection, goes into the bathroom. The water is pleasantly warm, stings a little when it hits cold skin. Her feet tingle with pain, having been too cold for too long to readily accept the warmth. She scrubs herself down, once, twice. Rinses through her hair thrice. Is eventually certain she has washed away the grime of nearly two weeks. Her hair smells of shampoo, not polluted water and smoke.

After wiping down with a towel she dresses in clean clothes, brushes her still damp hair, pulls it into a small bun. Hesitates, brushes her teeth with the regular toothpaste, rather than the travel pack that tastes like chemicals. Looks at herself in the mirror. Clean, tidy. Presentable. Cheeks flushed from the shower, the smattering of freckles across her nose a little bit more noticeable against her olive skin.

The commissar is where she left him, in his office, door still squeaking when she pushes it open. His chair doesn’t, moves with only a small creak now. He has had it oiled. Must have spent a lot of time in here while she was away, had time to get annoyed with it.

“Holly,” he says, rising from his chair.

“Sir,” she says, smiles softly, shifts her weight to her right leg. Turns her head and moves her body more than necessary as she takes in the state of the room, of him. Casually disheveled, familiar by now. “You seem to have survived my absence.”

“Oh, tsh,” he waves his hand dismissively, approaches her. Stops before he invades her personal space, but willingly steps into her aura. “You are unharmed, I hope?”

“Yes, sir,” she nods. “A few bruises and minor cuts. Nothing serious.”

“Good, good,” he looks her up and down, apparently needing to confirm that she is not missing a limb. “Well, you haven’t missed much in terms of action, but if I had the authority, I would have ordered the execution of the governor of Hyranax by now.”

He talks with his hands, his whole body, full of gestures and words. He might have had guards at his beck and call for these past weeks, but it is evident that they have not taken her place. The commissar is full of pent up frustration, needs to vent even though it is still early, no drink needed to loosen his tongue. Supplies have not been delivered, delays, bribes not producing the expected result, incompetent bureaucrats.

He leans against the heavy desk as he talks to her, gets agitated enough to pace the room when talking about the quartermaster and the continued thefts. Eventually she sits down on the hard couch, crosses her legs, makes sure that she is for all appearances listening intently to his grievances. Senses that it is going to be a long day.

Once night finally arrives, she climbs into her bed, pulls the covers over herself, closes her eyes. When she wakes in the morning she has no memory of lying awake, waiting for sleep to claim her, no dreams, just a short break from reality. The day proceeds uneventfully, following patterns familiar to her by now. The commissar’s need for her attention appears to have returned to almost normal intensity. A slight increase in comments during breakfast, but that is all. He is happy to have her back, she notes. Isn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

She supposes that he is an acceptable superior. The four executed for desertion during the third week were handled efficiently. Quick deaths. No nonsense. No rambling. A task that had to be done and thus was done. For the most part he settles for shouting, hands out lighter punishments, isn’t above sharing a laugh with the men.

It is true that he lacks some degree of common sense, requires attention in a way she is unaccustomed to provide, but he is a decent enough officer to work for. The work is too easy, that has to be said. The living conditions perhaps too generous.

As she lies awake on the second night, she wonders if it is the comforts provided that is bothering her. A life lived too easily makes for soft people. It is not the life that was meant for her.

And yet.

A month she lived under these circumstances, untroubled. There is no reason why she should feel that something is missing now. But there is. There is a want, a longing that was not there before, or at least not one that she cared to listen to. Neglected by necessity. Even when she pinpoints the likely source of her distress, she finds the answer displeasing. Is disappointed with herself. It feels like weakness, a weakness she should have overcome by now.

It takes her a long time to fall asleep, hours spent staring at a ceiling she can’t make out in the dark, thinking, considering her alternatives, how to solve this. In the morning she is grateful for the recaff. Once evening comes she sits with the commissar as usual, but once there is a lull in his one-sided conversation she speaks up. Decides that she must confront her shortcoming.

“Sir,” she says softly, her head slightly tilted down, looking up at him through her lashes as she speaks. “I’m sorry, but… May I have the evening off?”

He looks at her, eyebrows raised, glass half-way to his lips. After a brief pause the surprise wears off, he sips his drink, eyes still on her. A frown.

“I don’t see why not,” he says, feigns indifference. She decides to pretend she believes his act. “We all need to stretch our legs now and then.”

She nods, smiles, unfolds her legs, gathers them a little underneath her, folds her hands in her lap. Makes herself seem smaller.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”


	4. Jarvis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features no cannibalism, but there is some serious social awkwardness and characters dealing poorly with trauma, which I am sure we can all agree goes perfectly with sex.

She asks around, burdening strangers with her proximity without warning. They know she serves directly under commissar Lynch, it is hard to mistake her for someone else all things considered, so they answer but it is clear that they would rather not have anything to do with her. A man flinches so badly when she addresses him that he drops the crate he is carrying. The wood cracks but doesn’t break, nothing spills out. She takes a moment to just look at it before turning her attention back to him.

“I’m looking for the 116th,” she tells him. The crate is his problem.

“W-what?”

“The 116th. Sergeant Eade’s squad. Where are they garrisoned?” she says, not making the effort to appear to be anything other than what she is. She can see him shiver, knows it is because of her and not the wind.

“Um, I think down the second row that way,” he says, gesturing past her. “Not entirely sure, sorry.”

She looks at him for a second or two too long before turning and walking away in the direction he gave.

“Thank you,” she says, remembering her manners as she hears him scramble to pick up the damaged crate without jostling its contents further.

The mud squelches under her boots and the sleet is coming in sideways. Supposedly this is summer here. Eden 39 is quite possibly the most inaccurately named planet she has ever set foot upon, with few redeeming qualities. There have been mentions about valuable minerals, but with the sleet coming in hard she finds it difficult to see how that would be worth the effort.

Further inquiries lead her to one of the ramshackle buildings, old and worn and not built to last. A relic that has been reinforced, repurposed, but not rebuilt to be comfortable. She steps inside, relieved to be out of the wind, but finds the interior to be cold despite the number of people sheltering inside. There are multiple card games, the smell of lho-sticks snake through the air, clothes are hanging up to dry. Still, she can stretch the definition and consider it fairly orderly, under the circumstances. The bunk beds are made properly, personal effects are evidently not allowed to spill out into the public area, she can only see a handful of bottles of unidentified liquid.

The barracks are filled with strangers wearing more or less the same clothes. There are faces that she might have seen before in passing, but none that she has ever paid any attention to. It is evident that they know her though as the people closest to the door straighten up. One man gets to his feet and the companions around his makeshift table quickly follow suit. The conversation dies. People further into the building glance in their direction, noticing the mood changing, curiosity getting the better of them.

The first man seems nervous, young. Pimples and an unflattering wisp of a moustache. He offers her a salute. She looks at him, from his face to his shoes, back to his face. He seems uncertain if he has done something wrong, so she returns the gesture. Acknowledgement. He doesn’t need to salute her. Technically shouldn’t, being indoors. Still. She has no desire to embarrass him. Besides, he sees her as an extension of the commissar, no doubt.

“Bleak!” A familiar voice easily overcomes the increasingly hushed conversations. The woman waves at her, weaves through her fellow guardsmen, approaches casually.

“Wechsler,” Holly says, staying put. She musters up a smile, she should be friendly, the guardswoman has been nice to her. The other woman stops in front of her, and the people who previously occupied the space closest to the drafty door seem to evaporate further into the building. “You are well, I hope?”

There. Pleasantries.

“As well as I could hope to be,” she agrees, moves as she talks, fluid and without effort, as if her body is an extension of her mind, her face and voice one and the same. Holly can’t help but want to study her. “What are you doing here? Commissar sent you?”

“No,” she states. Glances past her, sees other familiar faces. “I wanted to talk to Eade.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s uh,” she turns around, sees him just as Holly has. He is already approaching, smiling, with Roth trailing behind him. Holly returns the smile, as one does. “Coming. Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do for you?”

“I will,” she agrees, watches the woman turn to leave, pat her approaching companion on the arm as they pass, once, twice, notes the brief exchange of expressions she cannot decipher. They seem happy, but there is something else there too. As she heads back into the crowd, Wechsler grabs a hold of Roth, forcefully turns the girl around, ushers her along with her. Conversation has started up again in the barracks, but it is a different sort. The kind that is less about holding a conversation, and more about being heard talking while listening.

“Hey,” Eade says, stopping in front of her.

She is uncertain how to approach this, and decides it is better to be direct. She is not skilled at social interactions, could not navigate this smoothly no matter how hard she tried.

"You touched me," she tells him. It is not an accusation, just a statement, a fact. Still, he looks uncertain, nervous. His body tenses, smile grows stiff, fades.

"I- I apologize if it was inappropriate."

His voice betrays that he doesn't think that it was, isn't sure why he is being confronted with it, but doesn’t want to make a scene. Perhaps is concerned that there may be disproportionate consequences, especially considering her proximity to the commissar.

"I am not upset," she assures him. She puts some gentleness into her tone. Smiles. His shoulders sink down a little, smiles back. "I..." she starts and finds that her words are failing her. Again, she opens her mouth to speak and whatever she was going to say die on her tongue. "I'm sorry. I... wanted to ask if... Did you find it unpleasant?"

"No," he says, having waited patiently as she stumbled over her words. There is a softness in his eyes as he watches her, waits for her to say something akin to what she wants to express. She gets the sneaking suspicion that he understands what she struggles to verbalize but isn't going to interrupt. Wishes that he would.

They look at each other in silence for a moment as she tries to think of what would be appropriate to say next. She can think of nothing that her mother would approve of that would take the conversation where she wants it to go.

"Would you..." she hesitates, looks away, more nervous than she should be. "Would you like to..."

How do regular people do this? The only one she has ever been with kissed her without warning. Quick, surprising, she almost punched him for moving in so fast. It seems a poor tactic.

He solves the conundrum for her as he takes a step closer, raises his hand and gently puts calloused fingers against her face, thumb softly brushing her cheekbone. She looks up at him, not sure what to say or do. Knows what she wants to do, but also that it is not appropriate. His hand is warm and like electricity tingling at the surface of her skin.

"Doesn't it bother you?" she asks even as her hand rises to cup his, to keep it against her skin.

"It?"

"Me. That I'm..."

"No," he doesn't wait for her to finish this time, smiles again. His thumb finds its way to brush her lips briefly before he clears his throat and begins to pull away. Her hand follows, unwilling to lose contact, only drops once his arm falls back to his side. She mimics and waits. He says nothing, but shifts a little, glancing around them. Everyone is giving her a wide berth, subconsciously or very much on purpose. She has no doubt they are paying attention though. Doesn’t care.

"Would you like..." Holly starts, and his attention instantly returns to her. Another false start as she struggles to finish the sentence. Her mother would be displeased with her. "Would you like to come to my quarters?"

Inappropriate. Yet he smiles. Guardsmen are not known for being appropriate, she has to concede. Her mother would not just be displeased, there would be _words_. Not the words he uses.

"Sure, I’d like that," he says, the burn scars pulling on his cheek a little as he grins.

The wind blows cold from the southwest, tugging at anything with any give and biting into anyone with a pulse. Sleet follows, painful when it hits the skin, like little needles. Most have fled inside, and those that have to brave the weather run. They walk, keeping close to any building that will offer shelter, but never increase the pace.

“You know, Holly, I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he confesses, uses her first name, which is fine. She supposes that this is going to put them on a first name basis. Jarvis then, not Eade, not the burned man. “Not without the commissar present, at least.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. She hadn’t _planned_ to seek him out. And yet it seemed the only solution.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she tells him. It is honest enough. He doesn’t press for more information. That is fine with her.

“Have you done this before?” he asks. She looks up at him, face blank. She blinks once, twice.

“Yes,” she says.

He nods, seeming satisfied with a mere confirmation. Again, he doesn’t ask for details, accepts her short barely-answers. She finds that she likes that. It lessens the pressure to perform, to act normal.

There was a man before. Well, he had barely been old enough to not be called a boy. They had been of an age.

He had liked her.

Well.

He had liked that she was lonely. That was probably more accurate.

She hadn’t felt anything in particular for him, but she had been curious and allowed his advancements. It had been a wholly unsatisfying experience, truth be told, and she had written the whole thing off as something regular humans did but wasn’t for her.

A month after the first kiss the Inquisitor had shipped him off with a team to deal with an ork-infested research station, he never returned, and that had been that. She doubts he is still alive. Or even survived first contact. She finds herself wholly neutral to the idea, though she suspects she should be feeling some degree of regret. Perhaps she would have if his fumbling attempts in the dark hadn’t bored her so terribly. Or if he had been able to look her in the eyes when they spoke during the day.

She heard the other girls speak of crushes and first loves when they were children. Knows the first is supposed to matter.

It hadn’t.

All it had done was make her feel less lonely for a little while.

Now, being less lonely is all she wants. Has gotten a taste of companionship, can’t help but to want it again. Fumbling disappointments in the dark seems an acceptable trade.

They walk in silence for a while when his hand finds hers. She stops dead in her tracks, taken aback. His hand is radiating heat, even through their gloves. He gives her fingers a light squeeze, looks down at her, waiting for a reaction.

“You’re warm,” she says, and after a moment of hesitation returns the squeeze. He seems satisfied with her response and they continue like that for a while.

As they walk, he tells her about how Singh had to open up Small’s hand, dig out goo between the joints. How Wechsler got into a fistfight over “borrowed” blankets not being promptly handed over when they returned. How Roth’s injury is looking like it will heal well. How Coleman is still Coleman, makes it sound like an unfortunate turn of events.

By the time they reach the quarters she shares with the commissar he has his arm around her shoulders, both shivering as they duck past the front door and the guards posted there. The two men say nothing, though she can tell that they tense as she gets close to them. Exchange a look between themselves. There is no mistaking that it’s her, and whatever opinion they have of her companion they keep to themselves. Probably assume that the commissar has sent for him, one way or another.

They shake the worst of the sleet off their thick outer coats, hang them away to dry. Kick the mud off their boots. When they step into the warm antechamber, she hears the commissar’s voice.

“Did you enjoy the walk?”

He sounds chipper enough. Maybe it will only be one glass tonight. She steps into the common room where he’s sitting, disheveled and relaxed on the couch, one foot on the table.

“It’s a bit nippy,” she tells him, even as his attention goes from her to Jarvis. The two men stare at one another, neither having expected the other to be there. Belatedly she realizes that the commissar might not want the troops to see him in this state.

“Commissar,” Jarvis says, back stiff, hand twitching as if an involuntary salute is about to overpower him.

Lynch looks at him, then at her, then back at him. He sips his drink and seems to settle into his relaxed posture once more, but with purpose. Calculated, not natural.

“I see you, ah, have company?” he says to her.

“Yes, sir,” she agrees. His observation is correct. “Good night, sir,” she adds, gently but firmly.

He hesitates, not accustomed to her making the decisions, but finally nods.

“Good night, Holly. Eade,” he adds, with a certain stiffness to his voice.

“Commissar,” Jarvis repeats and quickly follows her as she heads towards the hallway to her chambers. He seems smaller here, she notes. Out of place and very much aware of it.

Her room waits at the end of the long, empty hallway. She pushes the door open, turns on the lights, steps inside, waits for him to follow, closes the door again.

“That… felt like I was fifteen and getting the stink eye from my girlfriend’s father,” he says, chuckles. It sounds a bit nervous.

“Don’t worry about him,” she says. She doesn’t. The commissar doesn’t hold on to rules and propriety in private. Her mother might disapprove of her decision, but she doubts the commissar cares.

“Hm.”

She sits on the chair and begins to unlace her boots. He watches her, watches the room, seems uncertain what to do. She smiles at him, strands of her damp hair having escaped the bun and sticking to her cheeks. She knows her nose is red from the cold and every bit of her that was exposed to the weather is frozen and damp.

“You’re very pretty,” he tells her, despite the evidence to the contrary.

It makes her pause, shoe half-pulled free from her foot. That sounds like something that is part of a ritual that no one has explained to her. She doesn’t know how to respond so she puts the shoe down on the floor, next to the chair. One after the other.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she stands up, taking care to avoid the cool puddle her shoes have left on the floor. “I… don’t think my experiences with this are the norm.”

“Usually when someone says you’re pretty, you say thank you,” Jarvis smiles at her.

She cocks her head to the side, squints a little at him.

“Mother told me that if a man says I’m pretty I should stab him if he gets close,” she informs him.

“Oh, wow, ok,” he holds up his hands and takes a small step back. His tone suggests that he thinks she is joking. She decides that is fine. That it is probably best not to mention how her mother also showed her where a small knife would do the most damage that evening.

She removes her sheathed weapons and places them on the massive dresser without another word.

“Am I to assume you’re not going to stab me?” he asks behind her. He sounds closer than he was before she turned around. She glances over her shoulder, confirming that he is well within arm’s reach.

“I am sure it was good advice when I was six,” she says softly, to take the edge of it. “But I think it would make me a poor host today.”

“Well, I appreciate it.”

His hands are in her hair and she freezes, unsure what he is doing. He seems to be as well, as it takes him a moment before he gets her bun undone. With a little encouragement from his fingers her damp black hair, unevenly curled from its confinement, falls to her shoulders. His hands follow, gently caressing her shoulders, her arms. She looks over her shoulder, he smiles at her.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she echoes, returns the smile. Turns around and finds herself uncertain what is typically done. Finally, she decides to fall back on what she knows. He knows why he is here. What is typically done shouldn’t matter.

She reaches out and unbuttons his jacket, pushes it off his wide shoulders, he catches it as it slides down his arms, throws it over the back of the chair behind her. She unceremoniously tugs his thick green sweater upwards and he complies readily enough, pulls it off the rest of the way and drops it onto the floor. He’s wearing layers, she notes. Of course there are layers. The barracks are poorly insulated. Her hands go for his shirt and begin to unbutton it from the top, revealing more and more of his undershirt the further down she gets. He cups her face and pulls her in for a kiss, trapping her hands between them, still holding on to his half-open shirt.

She is not a good kisser, she knows that, but he doesn’t seem to care. She closes her eyes, reciprocates, can feel him smiling against her lips. His hands are so warm against her wind-punished cheeks that it is almost painful.

“You are pretty though,” he says, still so close that their noses touch.

“Thank you,” she concedes, agreeing to play along. “You are very warm.”

That makes him laugh, deep and genuine, and she feels a little bead of warmth grow in her chest.

“Thank you,” he says and kisses her again.

She only manages to undo one more button before her own jacket is taken off her, thrown across the dresser and scattering her weapons. A part of her wants to reach out and remove it, to make sure that her weapons are within easy reach. The pair of large hands traveling along her body are distracting though. He gives her ass a squeeze, and she forgets about her knives.

Jarvis lifts her with ease, one hand on her ass and the other at the small of her back. She manages to undo one more button on his shirt as he spins them around and gently lays her down on the bed. Her legs press against the side of his hips as she tries to pull him closer, but he hovers over her, too far away to give her enough leverage.

“You are impatient,” he grins, cups her face with one hand. She lets out a mildly exasperated sigh, relaxes into the mattress. Blows a loose strand of hair away from her mouth. Watches him watching her.

He unbuttons her white shirt slowly, reverently. Takes the time to kiss her throat, the scar on her neck, her collarbone. It only makes her want him to hurry up even more. Her hands run through his short hair, over his shoulders as he sucks her earlobe. Hips still far away. She tries pushing him closer again, her ankles able to snake around his upper thighs. He laughs against her shoulder as he allows himself to be pulled down on top of her. With her arms around him she takes a deep breath through her nose, as if she could absorb him better that way. He’s too heavy for comfort but at the same time she likes it, like this, wants to stay like this.

He pushes himself up a little on his arms, makes it easier for her to breathe. Looks at her with a fondness unfamiliar to her.

“Can I at least take off my shoes?” he asks, tone teasing, a smile on his lips. She returns the smile without much thought, runs her fingers along his chin, feeling the sensation of his stubble against her nails, fingertips. “Please?” he asks, kissing fingers that have explored too close to his mouth.

She drops her hands down on either side of her head. Demonstrative and impatient. Relaxes her legs and releases him.

“You’re very generous.”

“I know,” she agrees, and remains motionless, eyes at the ceiling. There is a crack running through the middle of it, thin but long, branching. She can hear the thud of a shoe being kicked across the room. Another follows.

He doesn’t turn the lights off. She has never done this in anything more than dim light, her previous partner had been too uncomfortable, had sought to hide her shortcomings with darkness. As Jarvis returns to the bed, bends over her in full view, mattress shifting underneath his weight, she finds that she is oddly grateful for the light.

“Thank you,” he says, voice suggesting lingering amusement.

She accepts his kiss but notes that he’s hovering over her again. Jarvis finishes unbuttoning her shirt, hands traveling over her bra, her stomach, traces muscles and scars, thumb circling her navel. She pushes herself up and takes off the shirt, throws it on the floor. No folding today. The bra follows, discarded with an equal lack of care. He watches her, clearly amused. Still, it takes very little time before his hands go for her breasts, whatever desire to delay he once had seemingly forgotten.

His hands are massive, gently kneading, stroking, squeezing. Fingers flicking and pinching brown nipples. She watches, a little amused by his fascination. His stubble is rough against the soft skin of her breasts, tongue wet and warm and pleasant, leaving a light chill in its wake. A small sigh escapes her lips, she can feel her cheeks begin to flush.

Holly puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him back up, sits up, smiles to assure him all is well, lets her hands slide down over his chest and to the half-buttoned shirt. Sets to work, determined to see him, touch him. He pulls her in for a kiss, hand in her dark hair, she complies, leans forward, meets him half-way. Her fingers fumble as they continue laboring.

She unbuttons the final button on his shirt and pushes at it, tries to move it past his shoulders and is met with resistance. Tenseness in his shoulders. She pauses, looks up at him. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he swallows and tugs it off, slowly, right arm first, another moment of hesitation, left arm.

The burn scars are extensive. Even with his undershirt on she can tell that it must have been sheer dumb luck that kept his face from being burned off. His left arm is more scar than skin and it continues onto his torso.

His eyes find hers, searching for something. Her face is still, showing no emotion at all while her hands reach for him, tug at his undershirt. It comes off with less resistance, but she can tell that he’s still waiting for something from her. Rejection? Revulsion? Shock? Tears? Questions? She doesn’t know which, doesn’t know which she could even muster believably. The burns are noticeable on his left side, but his chest is for the most part intact. She can see the distinct tell of skin grafts at his shoulder though, a square of smooth skin against scar tissue clearly not deemed serious enough to warrant new skin. She suspects his back took the worst of it, but it doesn’t interest her overly much in this moment.

She leans in and kisses him, her fingers trailing down his chest, feeling the hair, the muscles, the heart beating within the ribcage. He relaxes against her, his hands find her body again, squeezes her a little. Her hands reach his belt, begins to unbuckle it. He laughs again, breaking the kiss.

“Some don’t rush in, you know,” he tells her. Whatever spell held him is broken. Things are good again. She’s relieved, having dodged a minefield she had no idea how to cross.

“I think we’ve moved forward slowly,” she says. She means it, though judging by his expression he doesn’t believe her.

He frowns, opens his mouth to protest, turns to look at the discarded clothes, back at her. The look on his face is an argument against her statement in itself. She takes his hand and puts it on her breast, keeping eye contact the entire time. He tries to keep a straight face, she can tell, but his fingers twitch ever so slightly against her flesh. He cracks, smile breaking free.

“I get the feeling that if you tell me what you consider fast, you’ll make me blush,” he says, pinching her nipple a little, his other hand unbuckling his belt. She strokes his face, traces his jaw, pushes away old memories of rushed couplings in the dark. Her breath becomes a gasp when the pinch gets too hard.

“Hurt?” he asks, easing up.

“Yes,” she says.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, cupping her breast instead for a moment, before his hand slides down to her waist, abandons his half-undone pants in favor of grabbing her hips, pulling her closer. She wraps her arms around his neck as he drags her onto his lap, her breasts pressing up against his chest. She can feel his cock through their pants, grinds her hips a little against him, is rewarded with low rumble in his throat. Her fingers feel the smooth skin as it abruptly gives way to uneven scar tissue on his broad back. Eyes half closed, noses touching, lips almost. One of his hands on her hip, the other tracing her spine slowly.

“I like this,” she whispers to him, lips brushing his. She feels his smile, the muscles moving, cheek rising and touching the tip of her nose.

A shiver runs down her back as his touch grows featherlight. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps she need not rush this. He seems content to just be close to her. To touch her as if he is trying to memorize the curves of her body, the give of her flesh, the warmth of her skin.

And yet. It is not just a trade for companionship. She _wants_. Wants, wants, wants.

She shifts her weight a little onto her knees, her feet, moves her hips slowly against him, relishes in the friction. His grip on her tightens. One broad hand pressed flat against her back, the other gripping her hip, following her movements, fingers digging in. His kisses are soft, light, teasing as she grinds against him.

The bed creaks in protest when he lifts her hips, lets her fall back, head hitting the pillow. She bounces a little and his right hand frees itself from under her. Jarvis’ expression is almost grim as he unbuckles her belt and unbuttons her pants. She happily lifts her hips, letting him slide them down. He struggles a bit getting the first pant leg off her, trapped between her legs as he is. The other is easier, and she watches him with no small amount of amusement as pants, socks and finally her underwear are thrown over his shoulder, disappear down onto the floor, out of view from her relaxed position.

He gets to his feet and his hands quickly go to the front of his own half-undone pants, only to freeze, the urgency halted. His eyes are on her and she smiles. Raises a leg to give his stomach a push with her foot, aiming for the center with its trail of dark hair.

“You really are pretty,” he says quietly. She finds that she is starting to believe he genuinely means it.

“Thank you,” she replies, foot nudging the top of his pants. “You are pretty good looking yourself.”

She means it, finds him attractive in a rugged kind of way, but she can tell that there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes. She focuses on her expression, arranges her face to be softer, more inviting, show some teeth when she smiles. Tilt her head a little to the side. Hopes that it is natural enough to pass as genuine. He hesitates still, and she worries that she’s ruined it. That she’s unnerved him.

“Jarvis? I’m getting cold,” she says after a moment, and his hands begin to move again, remembering what they were doing. She smiles again, the soft smile she knows best, props herself up a little. There is something about her stillness that unnerves people, she knows.

His pants fall away together with one sock, his cock straining against his underwear. She sits up, meets his eyes, reaches out and runs one finger along the length of it. Delights in how his breath changes, the noticeable twitch under her finger. She wants to remove his underwear, see all of him, but face to groin old memories resurface. She wants to taste him but doesn’t want him to hold her head down. Doesn’t want to choke. Doesn’t know how to say it delicately.

She opts for getting to her feet, on her toes, running her hand along his length, pressing herself close to him, her lips against his. Safe in the knowledge that the hesitation never reached her face, could not without effort being made. Hopes he isn’t disappointed, that he won’t suggest it. She pulls away, turns to toss the covers aside, hears him moving behind her. When she climbs into bed and looks at him again, he is as naked as she. She smiles and holds out a hand, reaching up for him. He gets into bed, closes the distance, lets her hand caress his face, his hair. The knot in her stomach dissolves, the past forgotten as he holds her, touches her.

Her body doesn’t move right, there is something robotic and stiff that others see, but it responds to stimuli same as anyone else’s. His fingers find her slick with excitement. They slide in, one, two. She hikes her legs up, rests one ankle against his hip. One, two knuckles deep, sliding back and forth, thumb brushing her clitoris. Want, want, want, that desperate want. She hums against his lips, not sure why, but he seems to like it. He watches his fingers slide in an out of her, watches her watching him.

When he removes his fingers from her, he strokes himself with the same hand, gives her a final kiss before he aligns himself, pushes inside. A distantly remembered discomfort returns to her as she adapts to his girth. She takes a deep breath and tries to relax, angle her hips a little more upwards to ease things. He begins to thrust before she is quite ready, burying himself inside her over and over. She bites back the discomfort, pushes it from her mind, soon it has ceased altogether. Tries to focus on the here and now again, on him, on her, on this. She vaguely registers that he’s saying something into her neck as he thrusts, but she can’t make it out, isn’t sure it’s a complete sentence in the first place.

He slows his thrusts, one hand on her breast, covering it entirely. Goes deep, slowly presses himself as far in as he can possibly go. Pulls almost entirely out and again goes as deep into her as their bodies will allow. His hand travel down along her side, waist, finds her hip. Fingers dig into her flesh and he thrusts faster again.

She likes his body, genuinely doesn’t mind the patchwork of scars. He was the burned man to her before he was Eade, before he was Jarvis. Her fingers caress his chest, his arms, his back. Enjoys the feel of him under her hands. Wishes she enjoyed the coupling. He is, she can tell even without him telling her in half-finished sentences. She lets it continue, tries to focus on the penetration, the sensation of it, tries to find pleasure in it.

_You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it._

“Jarvis,” she finally says. He is bent over her, close and warm and moving.

“Mm?” he kisses her neck, nibbles, keeps thrusting.

“I… can we stop?”

His hips slow, stop, and he heaves himself up on his elbows to look at her, eyes searching for something her face cannot give. Holly can sense the reluctance wafting off him. Biting his lower lip he nods, she can see that he tries to contain frustration, frustration and something else she can’t pinpoint. He slowly slides out of her and with a sigh lies down on his side next to her in the narrow bed. She moves over a little to make room.

“Sorry,” she says.

“No, no.” He takes a moment to stare at the ceiling, the thin crack, before he looks at her, eyebrows frowned in concern. “What’s wrong, Holly? Did I hurt you?”

“I mean… no,” she says, deciding that the early discomfort is not worth bringing up. “I just…” Words fail her again. “I wasn’t enjoying it,” she finally says. She suspects it is not what she should say, that she’s hurt his feelings, that someone more well versed in these things would have put together a nice lie for him. She doesn’t know what kind of a lie he would like though, so the truth is all she has to offer.

Jarvis kisses her shoulder as he considers her words. Seems to come to a conclusion, or at least reach a theory.

“Would a different position help?” he suggests. She can feel his cock pressed against her hip, erect, warm, wet. Attention demanding.

She thinks back to the man before, always above her, always thrusting, quick to finish, to leave. Always the same. Always unsatisfactory.

“I don’t know,” she admits, running her fingers over his arm. A thin scar there, old, maybe a knife. Maybe just a bad scratch. She likes his arms, as thick as her thighs.

“Do you want to try?”

She turns her head to look at him, so close their noses are almost touching. Brown eyes, brown hair starting to go grey at the temples, straight nose, two lines on his forehead, visible even when he’s not frowning. She reaches up and runs her fingers along his chin, feeling the stubble against her short nails again. She wants to keep him as long as she can, she realizes. She has been lonely for a very long time. She nods. Smiles a soft smile, presses a kiss against his lips, her hand travels down to his chest to feel his pounding heart.

Jarvis guides her to lie on her side, his burned arm under her head, her back to him, facing the door, kisses her neck, her shoulder. With her back pressed against his chest he enters her again, slowly, no discomfort this time, his hiked breath tickling her ear. As he begins to move inside her again she closes her eyes, tries to enjoy it. The proximity she likes. She wants that to be enough, but she isn’t sure it can be. A large hand squeezes her breast before slowly moving down, caressing her stomach. The sensation is pleasant.

She can feel him shift a little in the hard bed, his hand finding her hip, stroking the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. He applies a little pressure and she follows, angling herself as he guides her. She isn’t sure what he is trying to achieve but he never stops moving, thrusting, and she trusts him. As she is considering asking him to try something else there is a warm, tingling sensation inside of her. Familiar, entirely new. It surprises her enough that a gasp escapes her, eyes snapping open. His movement slows, though she wishes it wouldn’t.

“Good or bad?” he asks her, his breathing pronounced.

“Good,” she says.

In the corner of her eye she can see him smile as he begins to thrust again. The sensation returns in short order and she wants more, fingernails gently scratching the sheets as the frustration grows. A tenseness develops in her, begins to build in a not unfamiliar way. His hand leaves her thigh slowly, finds its way down to her groin. Calloused fingers press against her and begin making a narrow circular motion.

“A little lower,” she whispers into the pillow, into his burned arm underneath her, he complies. Her breath soon comes out ragged and she hears him chuckle as her hips twitch.

It becomes repetitive in the best kind of way. His touch, the sound of flesh against flesh, the building pressure, the need for more, more, more. She wants to say something, wants to tell him that she likes it, but words fail her for the third time today.

Her thighs pull together, as if to hold him close, as if the sensation is too much and her body wants it to stop. It doesn’t stop, he doesn’t stop. She comes gasping, clawing at the sheets and, belatedly she realizes, him. She barely registers nails digging into flesh. He sucks in air through his teeth in a sharp hiss, presses on, lets her ride it out.

Once her legs relax, her grip on him, on the sheets, soften, he kisses her neck once. It is almost a mercy when his hand moves away. He grabs her hip, fingers slick, and changes the angle of their hips, moves faster, harder, giving further life to her lingering orgasm. Her stomach muscles are twitching, she can feel her insides rhythmically clench down on him, her thighs warm and tingling and trembling. He groans into her shoulder as he spills himself into her, the feeling neither pleasant nor unpleasant but it makes her suck in a ragged breath nevertheless. The thrusts slow, stop, and they lie there, all tangled limbs and heavy breathing, fingers slowly exploring, a few gentle kisses, relaxing into the sensation until it melts away. She almost protests when he pulls out of her this time.

She watches as he rolls over, fumbles for something, finds it out of reach. Eventually Jarvis gets up and grabs his discarded jacket, digs around in the pockets. Pulls out a battered pack of lho-sticks, slips one in between his lips, lights it, takes a drag. He holds it out towards her, eyebrow raised. A silent question. She shakes her head. He shrugs and turns off the light, sits down at the edge of the bed.

“Scoot,” he tells her, gesturing for her to move over, lit by the lho-stick’s glow.

Holly complies, watching him for a cue of what he expects of her now. He gets back into bed, haphazardly throws the covers over them, wraps an arm around her. Pulls her close as he blows smoke out through the corner of his mouth, away from her.

His left arm is mostly burn scars, as are large parts of his back, his side, a little of his chest. She lies still and waits, but finds her hand tracing the edge of the scars, the unevenness drawing her fingers.

“Rogue psyker,” he says, watching her hand trace the ghost of what must have been a very serious injury. “Two of them. One rained fire down on us, the other took over the men one by one, like meat puppets. Turned our own against us.” His voice is grim, his eyes turned towards the ceiling. “I would have given anything to have had one of you there then.”

Ah.

The last piece of the puzzle clicks into place. She understands.

She turns it over in her head for a little while, tastes it. Decides that it will do. Focuses on the present. Still uncertain as to what he wants. His arm around her, hand at her hip, lying close and sticky in a bed too small for the two of them.

He smiles at her and she returns the smile. Dutifully. Her mind is elsewhere, comparing this to pervious experiences.

“Do you want go a second round?” she asks. It is the only thing that makes sense.

The question catches him off-guard and he coughs, turns away from her, waves the hand he’s holding the half-smoked lho-stick in. The dim light of it highlights his shape but doesn’t pick up on the scars.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. “I thought- alright, alright, let me just finish this and I’ll see what I can do for you.” He gestures with the lho-stick as he speaks, down towards her hips, her legs.

It doesn’t seem like the right reaction to her question.

“I’m sorry,” she says, gently stroking his chest. “I thought that was why you were still here.”

“Oh,” he hesitates, looks at her, looks at the door, back at her. “Do you want me to fuck off? I mean, just say the word if that’s the case, but, uh…” he trails off, waiting for an answer to a question only half voiced.

“You may stay,” she says. His presence is not unwelcome.

Jarvis takes another drag at the lho-stick while looking at her. It shrinks closer to his lips and he flicks the ashes off onto the floor. She doesn’t comment.

“Hey,” he starts, a little more quietly this time. She looks up at him, head on his shoulder, waiting. “That how they usually treat you? Fuck and leave?”

He’s frowning, she can see that even in the poor light. The lines in his face look deeper now, he looks older. His expression suggests that there is something wrong with treating her like that, but she only shrugs.

“Hey,” he repeats, nudging her with the arm around her, pulling her a little closer for a moment.

“If he didn’t fall asleep,” she says. Not that he had slept for very long, the one time that had happened. Still.

“Who was it?” His tone is a little harder than before. She can feel his body tense next to her, as if he is about to leap into action. Doubts he actually would.

“It was a long time ago,” she assures him, shaking her head just a little to underline it. She feels how he relaxes again, though not quite entirely. “It was fine.”

“Hmph,” he grumbles and leans away to put out the remains of the lho-stick on the floor. They are left in complete darkness.

When he comes back, he rolls onto his side and wraps both arms around her, presses her close to his chest. She can smell the smoke clinging to him, the sweat, the sex. He kisses her forehead, one hand gently caressing her back, lets out a deep sigh. The smell of smoke briefly becomes a bit more pronounced. After a little while she snakes an arm around him too. They lie like that for longer than is comfortable, probably for either of them. When he finally relents and releases her, he still holds on to her, a big hand gently but firmly on her hip.

The bed is too small for both of them, they are sticky, it is too warm. But his presence is not unwelcome.


	5. Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly delayed, but here's chapter 5 of I-have-no-clue. At least 14, which is not the 7 I thought it would be when I posted the first chapter. Contains precious little plot, porn, or nuts. It's really mostly character development and feelings. Have no fear, I know where we’re going, we’re just taking the scenic route.

Jarvis doesn't leave, stays the night, though they both sleep poorly. When she wakes the first time as he turns suddenly, she thinks it is the bed that is too small. When she wakes for the fourth time, because he holds on to her like a drowning man, she begins to suspect the bed is not the issue. He gets up earlier than she does, hesitates before kissing her in the dark, as if she might not want the affection now that morning is here.

Holly half slumbers while he showers, watches him dress, pause, kneel on the floor by the bed. She looks at him looking at her, smiles. He returns the smile, seems uncertain still.

“Sorry about… the night,” he says, evidently aware of how little sleep she has gotten.

“That’s ok,” she assures him, reaches out and runs a finger along his nose, dips to his lips, down his chin.

“Can I come back in the evening?” he gently takes her hand, practically envelops it in his, kisses her fingers.

“I’d like that.”

She means it, more than she can express. The three words doesn’t do her desire for companionship justice. It seems to be enough though. He smiles, crow’s feet deepening, kisses her again, gets to his feet.

“See you later then,” he says as he slips out the door, closing it behind him.

She stays in bed for another ten minutes until it is time to get up, shower, get dressed and ready. Despite the mess they made undressing it isn’t difficult to find her things. There are only so many places items can disappear to in a room so spartanly decorated. After a moment of hesitation, she pulls the sheets from the bed, folds them, puts them on the pile of laundry.

Once that is done, she leaves to join the commissar in the dining room. He is early today, she notes, already seated while the food is being set out by the steward. Reading from a dataslate, tapping his foot against the table leg. Irritated. She pulls out her usual chair, sits down, nods to the steward who can’t bring himself to look at her. He leaves the room as soon as the table has been laid out without acknowledging her existence. As usual.

Lynch is normally the one to wish her a good morning first, the silence is new. Irritated with her? Perhaps. Perhaps she has overstepped. She begins to eat her breakfast, says nothing until he puts away the dataslate, picks up his own fork.

“Good morning, sir,” she says, gently, testing the waters.

“Yes, sorry, good morning, Holly,” he says, speaking faster than usual but not harshly. He pauses, fork hovering above his plate, looks at her.

She blinks, surprised at this degree of attention so early in the morning. Swallows, raises her eyebrows a little, tilts her head a bit to the side.

“Are you… well?”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“Uh... It’s none of my business, but,” he presses on, disregarding the first part of his statement, “if you need me to, I’ll have him sent to a penal colony in a box. He’ll be off the planet on the first available shuttle.”

Ah. Not irritation. Concern? Misplaced, but nevertheless. He seems to have forgotten that she is here to protect him, not the other way around. Yet she supposes she can’t blame him for asking, considering her lack of initiative and consistently compliant behavior this past month and a half. She smiles, softly, shakes her head, meets his eyes.

“I invited him, sir,” she assures him. “I am human.”

The statement hangs between them, heavy and uncomfortable, challenging. She didn’t intend it to be, but now that it is out in the open she sees it for what it is. It makes him uneasy, that is evident. “Mutant” hangs in the air, a disagreeing ghost, unspoken, unwanted, undeniable. There are silent follow up questions, words that when given voice cannot be taken back. Answers that are not flattering to either of them.

“That is true,” Lynch finally agrees, the pause having lasted several seconds too long. “Ah, will you be seeing him again?”

“I think so,” she says, making sure that her voice is soft, nonthreatening, no hint of hostility or resentment. “I would like that.”

“Mm,” he looks at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “Very well. Still, the penal colony offer stands, if he makes you cry.”

“I will keep that in mind, sir,” she smiles, refrains from confessing that she has never shed tears due to emotional distress. Isn’t wired that way.

Breakfast is tenser than usual, the ghost of the conversation lingering. The motions are the same as other mornings, but there are fewer calls for her attention, though she can see him grimace more than once while reading. Decides to put in more effort to appease him, ensure that there are no hard feelings. That he won’t regret allowing her companionship, even if it will cut their evenings short. Perhaps it will be good for him. Perhaps he will drink less, go to bed at more reasonable hours.

Jarvis stays throughout most of the night after that, night after night. He arrives in the evening and they retreat to her room together, undress, explore. She becomes more accustomed to the unfamiliar words “I want”, the intoxicating sensation of human touch. He always rises early, kisses her before showering, dressing. Leaving. Returns to the barracks where his companions have divided his blankets between them. He’s messy when he arrives but leaves things orderly. Timely. She can live with that.

She keeps a small plate by the head of the bed now, to spare the floor any further burn marks. The servitor takes it away in the morning. Every time she puts a new one down it feels like she has a pet.

She always wanted a pet when she was a child, but her mother had refused. It was a moot point anyway. Animals shy away from her. Sense her condition same as people do.

The first week with Jarvis is difficult. He accidentally wakes her, turns suddenly, holds on to her too tight, wakes with a start. She sleeps poorly, but treasures the company, the conversations, the touch. Would rather shoot herself in the foot than request a larger bed.

In the evening she sits with the commissar, listens to him talk, mostly about the internal investigation’s lack of results and the other commissars. No signs of hidden tunnels, and no new thefts. The latter is unsurprising, of course, considering the sudden interest in investigating every nook and cranny in the base, and yet disappointing. Occasionally she asks him a follow up question, tries to pay more attention, doesn’t want him to feel neglected, give him any reason to put an end to Jarvis’ nightly visits. If Lynch is bothered with the development, he hides it well enough.

On the seventh day the new routine is broken. They have a visitor, it is true, but it is not Jarvis that hesitantly pushes the door between the antechamber and common room open. Wechsler salutes Lynch, quick, sharp, somewhat undercut by a crooked grin. She hasn’t taken her heavy coat off, evidently does not intend to stay for long. Lynch seems just as surprised as Holly at this turn of events.

“Commissar.”

“Guardswoman,” he says, lifting his almost empty glass a little as response. Evidently doesn’t remember her name, turns to Holly. “Replaced your guardsman so soon?”

“I… no. Wechsler?” she frowns, using the woman’s name mostly for Lynch’s sake. Disentangles her legs from their awkward pose, rises to her feet. “Is something wrong?”

“I was hoping you’d let me kidnap Bleak, commissar,” Wechsler declares, her words directed towards Lynch but clearly responding to her question.

“It’s… her evening?” he glances at Holly. A hesitant approval.

“Very well,” Holly nods, keeps the uncertainty from her voice. They have only talked once since she invited Jarvis to stay the night with her, fairly briefly at that. Isn’t sure what this is about, doesn’t like the uncertainty.

“Have fun,” Lynch tells her as she walks out into the antechamber.

Wechsler salutes again, closes the door. Holly looks at her, bewildered, suddenly feels a hand pressed flat against her back, pressure applied. She is ushered out into the entrance hallway, towards her coat. The touch confuses her more than the frankly blatant hint. She begins to dress, looks at Wechsler as she does so, tries to discern something, anything from her expression, is left with nothing new.

“What’s going on?” she asks, buttoning her coat.

“Girl talk.”

“With Roth?”

“Big girl talk,” the guardswoman corrects. Whatever the team might say on the matter of Roth’s age it is evident that to them she is still very much a child. “Come on,” she smiles widely, revealing her teeth readily, non-threateningly.

Despite her misgivings, Holly lets herself be guided out into the cold. Wechsler leads the way and Holly watches her, unsure what is going on. Her questions have so far been met with statements that hold no actual answers.

“Where’s Jarvis?” she asks.

“He was heading to the showers when I went to snatch you up.”

“Oh.”

“He’s a big boy, he’ll be fine.”

Irregular bursts of hail come down on them as they make their way through the camp. Eventually they take shelter in a mess hall, large and empty, cavernous, only a servitor present, wiping down the surfaces. The lights flicker above them as Wechsler sits down on one of the benches, rests one leg on the seat, leans an elbow on the table. Holly sits down opposite her, feet on the floor, back straight, but places her hands in her lap after she has finished unbuttoning her coat. 

“So…” Wechsler says, seeming to hesitate now. “I thought we should talk.”

Holly nods, waits. Isn’t sure what they are supposed to talk about, but the timing plants a seed of suspicion in her mind. The other woman clearly expected more feedback than that, clears her throat, nods.

“I should probably start with saying that I’m happy that you’ve taken a shine to Jarvis, even if it is a clear indication of poor taste,” she smiles, crooked, crow’s feet forming in the corner of one eye. Not a personal attack, maybe. A friendly joke perhaps. “He’s been…” she pauses, looks up at the stained ceiling. “Four years ago, we were sent to deal with some shit and…”

“The rogue psykers,” she offers as the other woman’s voice wavers.

“Yeah,” she takes a slow, deep breath, looks at Holly again. Seems relieved not to have to explain it further, relive it. “He lost, fuck, we all lost people. We were already leftovers from what got enlisted, but there’s a difference between fifty-seven and five, you know?”

Holly nods, waits for the guardswoman to continue.

“Anyway, I’m glad he’s, you know, coming back to the living so to say.”

Wechsler grows quiet, swallows, her eyes looking for some degree of feedback on Holly’s face. She smiles politely, primarily her lips and cheeks doing the work. It doesn’t seem like a situation that warrants signs of genuine happiness.

“Right, so, with that said, Jarvis might have mentioned something in passing this morning,” she starts slowly, looks down at her nail worrying the edge of the table, glances up at Holly, uncharacteristically nervous. Uncertain if she is going to be met with anger, perhaps. “Like, not details or anything, but I’ve got pretty good deductive skills and I kind of got the impression that something was wrong.”

Ah. Yes. Her suspicions are proven correct. Oral sex had been brought up last night. She had frozen, struggled to explain her discomfort after many false starts. Had watched his face grow hard as she did so.

“I see,” she says, monotone. Not sure what she is supposed to say, how she is supposed to say it. Settles for neutral, yet it must have come off as cold, irritated perhaps. Wechsler responds by overcompensating, moves her hands more, larger, wider movements as she speaks, her tone livelier.

“It went something like this. Hold on,” she says, scoots a little, lies down on the bench, a dramatic sigh. She covers her face with her hands, lets out a strangled groan. “ _I’m going to fucking murder that dead fucking asshole I don’t know how but I’m going to fucking nail the shitstain to a fucking wall_.”

The mimicry of Jarvis’ voice is not perfect by any means, but recognizable. She has evidently done it before, practiced. Wechsler sits up again, runs a hand through her short brown hair.

“His vocabulary is rather limited, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” she says cheerfully, teasing. Trying to take the edge off the subject.

“I don’t know about that,” she replies, makes an effort to ensure that she speaks softly, gentle tones. No suggestion of anger or offense taken. She isn’t offended, not really, but it is also not a topic she is keen on revisiting.

“Well, I don’t know exactly what that was about, but… I thought maybe you’d want to talk about it? I won’t be offended if you tell me to piss off, but we can share stories if you want? I can go first?”

Holly looks at her, a little confused. Blinks, glances at the servitor working on what seems to be a particularly stubborn stain, back to the guardswoman waiting for a response.

 _It was not that bad_ , she wants to say. _It’s not like someone hurt me. It just came out wrong. Jarvis jumped to conclusions, overreacted. It was fine. I am fine._ Instead she feels an uncomfortable knot forming in her stomach as her mind sinks into old memories, fishing for the words to explain, knows that it is going to be a struggle when she tries to speak.

“I don’t… I…” she closes her mouth, irritated with herself. Resorts to lies. It is easier. “I don’t really know what you want from me.”

A small smile, to assure her that everything is fine. Yet either Wechsler misunderstands her, or she doesn’t believe the lie.

“No, hey, this isn’t about me,” she insists, voice soft, gentle, as if coaxing a stray animal to trust. “I just thought it might be easier to talk to a woman about it? You don’t have to.”

“It’s not…” she starts, is interrupted as a small group of guardsmen open the door.

They manage to get a whole two steps inside before Wechsler turns and bellows at them to fuck off. They backtrack quickly, shocked, bewildered, apologies mumbled as they retreat. The door shuts with a thud, the servitor slowly moves over to tidy up the floor they managed to soil during their brief visit.

“You would make a good commissar,” Holly says, fully intending to change the subject.

“Insults? How rude. And here I am trying to be a good friend.”

Friend. The word echoes in her head, feels strange, unfamiliar, alien. Feels like a lie. People don’t enjoy her company, only care for her opinion if she is giving them something in return to compensate for her presence.

“You don’t have to,” she says, echoing Wechsler’s own words. “I know I make you uncomfortable. I know people don’t like me. It’s alright.”

The guardswoman points a scarred finger at Holly’s chest, presses her lips together, raises one eyebrow. Irritation? Anger? Holly isn’t sure but feels like she is going to get scolded.

“I hate to break it to you,” she starts, voice firm but not harsh, “but there are a few of us who like you. I particularly liked you when you saved my ass from drowning in acid while getting chewed on. My armor is permanently discolored from that particular adventure, you know. And this?” she gestures with both hands, indicating the space around Holly. “Yeah, ok, but it’s already freezing here, so what of it? If you think that will make me forget that you worried about Roth before you even knew her, I don’t know what to tell you. And I assure you, Jarvis likes you quite a bit.”

Gratitude is different from liking someone, she wants to point out. People have been grateful to have her by their side before, when the circumstances were right. Didn’t mean they wanted her to stick around once the daemons were dispatched.

“He likes me because…” she trails off, doesn’t want to finish the sentence. Fears saying it means the spell ends, even if he isn’t present to hear the words.

“Hey, I’m not saying that him getting a leg over isn’t influencing his feelings here, but you also didn’t see him after he got back from the commissar’s after requesting you,” she grins. Brings up her hands, fingers close together, moves the left one as if it is talking. “I’m going to need you to be on your best fucking behavior tomorrow, and however long we are in the field. Am I making myself clear? Professional, polite, appropriate-”

Again, the mimicry of Jarvis’ voice, a little bit more exaggerated this time. She brings the right hand up a little, changes her voice, speaks a little slower, the words rolling over her tongue.

“I have never been appropriate a full day in my life, Eade, I can’t believe you’d even think to ask that of me,” Wechsler continues, seeming to enjoy herself. The left hand bobs up again, her eyes on Holly who watches, unsure what this is supposed to accomplish other than to amuse the storyteller. “Listen here, Coleman, this is where you make a fucking effort and grow as a person. I want her to feel welcome because she’s volunteered to keep daemons from eating our souls and cavorting in our innards. So if I hear a single stupid joke even remotely at her expense, I will knock your teeth out.”

Again, the other hand jerks up, but this time her voice comes out normally.

“Hey, Eade, this doesn’t happen to be that woman you fancy? The one you called, and I quote, ‘awkwardly adorable’ the other day?”

The left hand flinches back, gapes open, accompanied by a dramatic gasp. Their eyes meet, Wechsler’s grin grows even wider, moves her left hand, puts on a voice again. “My response to your absolutely _outrageous_ question depends entirely on whether or not you are going to wingman for me.”

Her hands drop to the table, she shrugs, smiles. Seems quite satisfied with the performance.

“Some artistic liberties have been taken, of course.”

“I… don’t know how to respond to that,” Holly admits, returns the smile, as is expected of her. 

“I will concede that my dramatic retellings never seem to get the standing ovations that they deserve,” she sighs, a hint of theatrics lingering in her movements. “But a little chuckle would be nice.”

“It was funny.”

“Of course it was,” she says, seems pleased even if she didn’t get the requested response. Would have been weirded out if Holly had tried, for certain.

Holly fidgets a little with her sleeve, searches for something to talk about, something that has nothing to do with why Wechsler brought her here.

“Is it true that you threw grox dung at him?”

“Hah! Yes, I was ten, and no matter what he says it was dry, thank you very much,” she laughs, effortlessly and genuine, her hands moving as if trying to paint a picture of the scene. “He proceeded to push me into a leech infested lake, I hope he told you that too. It took my mom a full hour to peel them off me. I still have scars left from some of them, you know.”

“He… mentioned the lake, but perhaps not the leeches,” she admits.

“Of course he didn’t. Ass.”

She sounds amused though, Holly notes. Wechsler’s foot nudges hers under the table, a gentle tap.

“Wanna do some sharing?” she asks. “My first boyfriend couldn’t find the hole,” she starts, not waiting for a response. “And it’s not like it’s some warp storm down there, you know? Just fucking look, or use your fingers or whatever, but no. Very sweet guy, but let’s just say I was really reevaluating everything about him after a couple of minutes of fumbling. I admit that I bear some responsibility because I apparently fancied the dumbest boy in the whole damn village, but _still_.”

Wechsler dives into quite graphic descriptions of her own experiences, anecdotes, rumors. Laughs, rolls her eyes, grimaces, accompanies with hand gestures to ensure that there is no confusion. She pauses for Holly to chip in, but carries the conversation effortlessly. It is easier to talk this way, Holly has to admit, even if it requires far more work to get her expression right than she is used to. There is no need to explain, to go into detail, allows her to stick to acknowledging, agreeing, shaking her head, a few words here and there.

Slowly but surely the guardswoman draws the general gist of it out of her in bits and pieces. It isn’t so much that Holly is reluctant to share, but rather has trouble finding the words, getting them out right, isn’t certain what is really worth sharing. She knows that Wechsler is cajoling her, not manipulating as such but certainly guiding the conversation under the guise of sharing. Allows it. Tells her of dark rooms that hid her awkward movements, rushed and unsatisfying sex, quick departures. A few attempts at giving head, because he asked, that consistently left her choking, pulling away in a horrid coughing fit. But he would talk to her during the day, which was more than most did.

“He sounds like a selfish ass,” Wechsler declares, her face a grimace of disapproval.

“I think we were both young and dumb,” Holly says, looking at her hands. “I don’t think he meant any harm.”

“There’s young and dumb and then there’s young and dumb,” she huffs, shrugs her shoulders. “I would like to remind you, my first went soft twice before managing to figure out where it was supposed to go and would not accept help. _That’s_ young and dumb.”

The pause makes it clear that something is expected of her, a reaction. She isn’t sure what kind. Settles for shrugging, glancing up, an appeasing smile. It seems to do the trick.

“Incredibly dumb,” Wechsler adds, rolls her eyes, a soft frown forming on her brow, the joking tone returning. “But I promise, even an idiot understands that they’re out of line if you grab them by the balls roughly. I mean, obviously lay down the rules first, but, you know. For the future.”

She says the last part so cheerfully that Holly almost misses what she is saying. Memories of her mother flood her mind, the little knife, how to hold it, where to bury it. Concern for her safety.

Friend? Perhaps. And yet.

“I would rather not castrate Jarvis,” she says.

“Oh, no, I would prefer it if you didn’t, and I don’t think you’ll need to but if you really have to, you should ask Small to do it. We worked with a penal legion many years ago, and, well, their commissar was a bit of a junkie and not much help keeping them in line. I’ve seen him do it firsthand. Very efficient. But a warning is usually… I’m sorry,” her tone shifts, the rapid shower of words slows down, she leans back, looks Holly up and down. “I’m talking to you as if I didn’t see you go toe to toe with that damn monstrosity. It’s just…” Wechsler hesitates, moves her hand towards her, reaching out or gesturing? Holly isn’t sure, only looks, doesn’t move. “You’re very sweet.”

Meek, obedient, submissive. Those are the words that she is looking for, Holly knows. Knows them to be true.

“Men should be a little bit afraid of you, you know,” the guardswoman tells her. “It’s good for their health.”

“I think it’s quite enough that they find my presence off-putting,” Holly says, accompanies it with an apologetic smile.

For a brief moment Wechsler looks confused, watches her with a frown, head tilted a little to the side, lips parted ever so slightly. Realization makes her eyebrows shoot up, a quiet “oh” escapes her. It seems that all the effort Holly has put into keeping up and moving naturally this evening has been enough to make the guardswoman briefly forget her condition. The thought pleases her.

“At any rate,” Holly says. “I don’t want normal people to react to me as psykers do.”

“Never seen you near the psykers.”

“It’s… quite something,” she offers, tries to smile and frown at the same time. Not sure if she does a good job but the other woman doesn’t recoil. Good enough.

She isn’t sure how they end up there, but by the time Wechsler yawns their conversation has wound its way back to the agri-world where the guardswoman grew up. Fields, grox, a small village of people that were more or less one large extended family.

“My mother had the same name as three other women in the village, cause of the approximately five surnames to go around. But she used to say she was the best of them,” she smiles, a little crooked, the scars tugging at the skin. “On account of being a champ at lobotomizing grox. For what that is worth. Used to threaten us kids with it too, if we didn’t behave, went to bed on time, that sort of thing.” Another yawn. “She’d be pissed right about now.”

“It is late,” Holly agrees, longing for her bed with a sudden desperate intensity. The benches are not made for long conversations. The internal tension has seeped away, she feels lighter somehow, but also unspeakably weary from emoting for so long under such concentrated scrutiny. Wants nothing more than to lie still as a corpse in a quiet, dark room.

“Yeah,” Wechsler nods, swings one leg over the bench, gets to her feet. Another yawn. “We should do this again.”

“Sure,” she nods, smiles, moves out of the way so that the servitor can clean the spot where they were sitting, small pools of muddy water left in the wake of their boots. The suggestion isn’t unwelcome, though one-on-one Wechsler is quite intense.

No sooner does the guardswoman push the door open than they see the absolute shitstorm that the weather has turned into. Sleet is pounding the ceiling and the wind tugs violently at the open door.

“I think we better make a run for it.”

Holly nods, not wanting to spend more time in this weather than necessary. Would genuinely have considered sleeping in a corner of the mess hall, if left to her own devices. It wouldn’t be much different from the Centaur, or the time one of the Inquisitor’s tech-priests locked her into the servitor room. Yet they brave the weather, have to work together to close the door as the wind gets a better hold of it. They run their separate ways, heads down, squinting.

By the time Holly squeezes herself past the barely open front door of her living quarters she is soaked, frozen, freezing. She pulls the door closed with a thud, pauses for a second, dripping on the floor, before standing up straight, pushes loose hair out of her face. The guards are watching her, say nothing, so she returns the favor.

She stomps her shoes, ridding them of the worst of the mud and sleet, removes her gloves, hangs up her coat. The bearded guard yawns, leans against the wall, pays her very little attention.

Holly hears that something is different before she even opens the door to the antechamber. There are voices, deep ones, men talking, laughing. She steps into the room, tilts her head to the side, tries to determine where they are. It sounds like the noise is coming from straight ahead, the common room. She closes the door behind her, gently knocks on the door to the common room, opens it before waiting for a response. She is allowed here. Also has to pass through it to reach her private quarters.

“No, see, my father taught me and my brothers a very important lesson when we were young,” she hears Jarvis’ familiar voice say, a bit slurred. “If you raise it, you don’t put your dick in it. Now, that was mainly because granduncle Jeremy got caught with his pants down with a grox before I was even born, but I still think it applies.”

More laughter. Lynch isn’t slouching like he normally does, seems to be genuinely amused. There is a second carafe on the table, she notes. Jarvis is sitting in her chair, attention focused on the commissar, hasn’t noticed her. She steps into the room, shuts the door with an audible click.

“She returns!” Lynch grins at her from his place on the couch, glass in hand.

“I thought you ran out on me,” Jarvis declares. Gets to his feet, holds out his arms towards her, half-full glass in one hand. “Was told you eloped with Wechsler, a priest was summoned and everything.”

“A slightly exaggerated report,” she manages the energy for a small smile. “I’m sorry,” she adds as he gives her a peck on cold lips. “I’m really tired.”

“That’s alright.”

“I think it’s time for me to retire too,” Lynch says, heaves himself to his feet, abandons his glass on the table.

“Good night, sir,” she says softly. Her body is practically aching from weariness, to say nothing of her mind. She just wants silent darkness, to close her eyes and not do anything.

“Good night, commissar.”

“Night, night,” he waves a hand as he wanders off, makes the effort not to slouch at least. She is oddly thankful for that.

“It’s really coming down out there, huh?” Jarvis asks, pushes some wet strands of black hair out of her face. Sips his drink, though she suspects he has had more than enough.

“It’s… pretty bad,” she agrees, watches him abandon the glass on the table. “There’s still visibility though.”

She pulls away, starts heading to the hallway leading to her room, hears him follow, feels a hand on the small of her back, almost guiding her towards her room.

“Thanks for saving me.”

“Hm?”

“I’m pretty sure that by now he knows more about my relationship with anyone that has ever passed through my life than I do,” he smiles at her, eyebrows frowning. She doesn’t return the smile. “I’m not sure if that was the most intimidating conversation I have ever had, or the friendliest interrogation.”

“You were laughing,” Holly points out as she opens the door to her room, turns on the lights.

“Of course I was,” Jarvis leans down, kisses her cold cheek. Closes the door that she’s pointedly left open. “I worked damn hard to get him to laugh. I’ve never even heard of a commissar sitting a guardsman down for a friendly drink, and Lynch is, well, he’s alright but, shit.”

There had been a lot of drink, she notes, can smell it on his breath. She can’t remember if the first carafe had been full when she left, but it had by no means been close to empty.

“Did you have fun with Wechsler?” he asks.

“She’s funny,” Holly has to admit, unbuttoning her jacket. “She also told me some things about you.”

“She’s also a liar, especially if she mentioned anything about racing grox,” Jarvis says, with surprising emphasis. In truth Wechsler had mentioned trying to race the grox with some of the other children in the village, that that was how she broke her nose the first time. Hadn’t mentioned Jarvis’ involvement, but even Holly can sense a whiff of guilt from such a specific denial.

“Mhm,” she glances up at him. “I really just want to sleep.”

She gets a nod in response. He doesn’t leave.

Well.

Maybe it will be over quickly, she supposes, reluctance and disappointment worming their way into her chest. She does enjoy his company, when she isn’t exhausted, and she knows that there is a price for that. An unspoken agreement. Yet she finds her enthusiasm sorely lacking tonight. Grows quiet, can’t find it in her to arrange her face appropriately for him, her movements just what comes naturally, not what looks natural. If he notices he doesn’t comment. 

They undress, brush their teeth, get ready for bed. She finishes first, pulls on her nightgown, gets into bed. Closes her eyes and waits. He turns off the lights, feels his way across the room in the dark. She hears a thud, a quiet curse. He’s found a shoe with his toe, no doubt. That wouldn’t happen if he would just put them somewhere, give them a place, rather than discard them wherever on the floor.

He lifts the blanket, lets in cold air, feels around until he finds her before crawling in. She shifts to let him slip an arm underneath her, feels him press up against her, places a kiss at the nape of her neck, his free hand at her waist. The hand moves upwards, to her breasts, her neck, finds her jaw. Nudges her face towards him.

“Hey,” she hears him say in the dark, doesn’t answer. He kisses her, she responds weakly, reluctantly, wishes he’d just leave her be. “Good night.”

He releases her, leans back, lies down proper, arm moves back to her waist. Settles in to sleep.

Oh.

Still here. Offered nothing to compensate for her presence, and yet here. With her. Content with just sleeping next to her. The thought bounces around in her head, assumptions requiring rearranging, reevaluating. A trade that was perhaps not a trade after all. The tenseness in her stomach eases, replaced with a warmth in her chest that seems to grow with every heartbeat as she considers the situation.

Oh.

She turns around, awkwardly with such little space, he shifts to accommodate her. Slips an arm around him, wraps a leg around his, snuggles close, kisses his chest.

“Good night,” she says, settles in to listen to his heart, his breathing.

It is different. He is different. Wechsler was, perhaps, not wrong. Not lying.


	6. Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered breaking this into two pieces, but part 1 would have ended very abruptly so uh, sorry, it’s another 10k chapter. I trust you’ll sort it out.

“Is he sleeping better?” Wechsler asks her on the twentieth day. “I think he’s doing better.”

She doesn’t mean the sex, doesn’t mean compared to the past couple of months either. Holly’s forte is in combat, not social interactions, but even she can see the change in Jarvis. Understands it. Her condition makes people uncomfortable; they sense the inherent wrongness of her very existence. He senses it too, but he has gotten used to her presence, knows what the sensation means. The feeling of something being fundamentally wrong no longer makes him anxious, wakes him. It has become a source of comfort, a feeling of safety. 

When he sleeps in her bed, with his arms wrapped around her, she turns his words over in her head, again and again. _I would have given anything to have had one of you there then_. She is here now. The damage is done, she cannot undo it. Perhaps she can keep the memories at bay, dull the fear. Still. It is not love. It is not personal. It is just her condition that appeals to him, comforts him, whether he knows it or not.

And yet she loves that he treats her like she is normal. Acts like he can’t tell when she forgets to move her face for him. She loves that he is gentle with her, asks nicely, gives room for her to consider, explain. Gives a shit about what she wants. She loves his smell, his taste, his touch. She loves that he laughs when she tells a joke, that he can tell even when her voice doesn’t carry it the entire way.

She doesn’t feel lonely anymore.

On an intellectual level she knows what she feels is not _love_. She has enough common sense to mentally step back and look critically at the situation, at her life, at her circumstances. She has been starving for years and has finally been offered something edible, that is all. Of course she will consider it delicious when she has next to nothing to compare it to. And yet.

And yet her heart seems to skip a beat in the evening when the guards inform them that the usual guest has arrived, tones tinged with a bit of judgement.

And yet she delights in the nights they just lie next to each other in the dark and talk in hushed voices, no pressure to perform. Only voices, touch. Touch is easy.

And yet seeing him smile makes her want to smile. Not because it is the thing to do, but because he makes her happy. It feels right. It still takes effort, but it feels different. It feels genuine.

And yet. And yet. And yet.

It can’t last.

Her position with Lynch is temporary. The Inquisitor will send word, orders, instructions as to what her actual mission is eventually. Once that happens, she will be expected to act on them, complete the mission and return as quickly as possible. When she leaves Eden 39, this waste of mud and rock and ice, they will part ways. She will be alone again. Slowly the loneliness will begin to gnaw at her. Force her to turn all of her attention to duty. To purpose. Forget about wants and desires. About being happy. Smother warm memories until they are nothing but ashes.

Wants and desires and a taste of fleeting happiness is how Slaanesh finds a way into your soul. So she has been told. She has no soul. Not even a Chaos God can corrupt what is not there. And yet she wants, desires to stay here for as long as possible. Hopes that nothing will change.

Weeks go by and things continue. Become routine. The only interruptions are when Jarvis is sent on scouting missions, her presence not required.

Lynch warns her ahead of time that he is going to disturb that routine. She is grateful for the warning, though she doesn’t appreciate having Jarvis taken from her, however temporarily. A raid in a ravine, two of the other commissars are going into the field with their men, need more ground support.

“I can, of course, not give your guardsman special treatment,” Lynch tells her as they sit in the common room in the evening, watches her feigned reaction.

Holly nods, smiles softly, folds her hands in her lap. A not insignificant part of her wants to order him to do so, use the Inquisitor’s title to force her will in the matter, even if it would compromise the mission.

She doesn’t.

Acknowledges that the desire is, no doubt, natural but also certainly a sign that she is getting too used to being heard. Knows that it is shortsighted. Would certainly result in Jarvis’ execution if the Inquisitor found out. So, she quietly accepts Lynch’s decision, watches his stiff shoulders relax as she doesn’t object.

 _Yes_ , she assures him with her meekness. _You made the right decision when you allowed my relationship with one of your guardsmen. I am still obedient, still loyal to you first and foremost, will not challenge your authority. I will still protect you, not him. I know my duty._

And she does know her duty. She walks two steps behind Lynch as they join up with the two commissars that are heading out. An older man, grey hair, deep lines on his brow, his cheeks, a disfiguring scar across the nose that very clearly has required reconstruction. Cheerful temper though, it has to be said. The other is a woman with dark brown hair, plain features, taller than both, taller than Jarvis too, though shorter than the quartermaster. Her tan skin is marred by a smattering of lesser scars, if Holly was to hazard a guess she would suggest splinters from a nasty explosion. The female commissar barely contributes to the conversation, but when she does she speaks too loudly, makes Holly want to fall back an additional couple of steps. They walk through the edge of camp as the guardsmen are preparing to cram themselves into the repurposed local transportation ships, gathering equipment, milling about.

Lynch allows her a moment to wander off, to say goodbye to Jarvis, while he and the other commissars patiently wait for her, the men chatting as if they are old friends. She supposes it’s a kind gesture, though she would have preferred if the 116th hadn’t been among the half of Lynch’s regiment being sent to the ravine. She takes care to move her hips and shoulders a little more than what is natural for her as she walks away, only relaxes once she has been submerged in the sea of guardsmen, out of sight. Jarvis notices her approach before he sees her, turns, his face lights up. She smiles in return, lets herself be pulled in for a kiss, tastes the recently smoked lho-stick on his lips. 

The public affection is not new. Jarvis seems to have no interest in keeping their relationship a secret, and she is grateful for that. Has gathered that she shouldn’t be, but is, nevertheless.

Holly wishes that she were going with them. She misses the hunt. Wants to keep him, all of them, safe. Wants to do what she is good at, not trail behind Lynch as if she was his shadow. Tells Jarvis as much, watches him glance away, back to her, try to focus on their conversation. She follows his line of sight, understands.

She doesn’t go back to Lynch once it is clear that Jarvis has to return to the task at hand. She walks a straight line through the guardsmen who part before her, a speck of grey among the green, towards the group of psykers that are being deployed as well. About two dozen of them, some of them recognizing her on sight alone, others only realizing who, and what, she is when her aura grazes them. She stops as the ones who unwittingly got too close scuttle back, looks at them one by one, makes no secret that she is memorizing their faces. Takes a moment to remind them what is expected of them, what the price of failure is. That she is not above hunting them down one by one if they fail their duty. Can tell which of them remember their stay in the cells of the Black Ships too clearly for comfort, which of them are only uneasy because of her condition.

When she returns to Lynch, he looks amused.

“I don’t remember your guardsman being a psyker.”

“I just reminded them of the pecking order, sir,” she says softly, smiles in an attempt to water down her words to something palatable, but it doesn’t seem to work. Lynch’s eyebrows shoot up, he doesn’t return the smile, seems genuinely surprised. Shocked? Disapproving? She isn’t sure.

The old commissar laughs though, too loud and boisterous. Doesn’t mind that she’s reminded the psykers that they will easily become her prey, claims it is good that they know that there is something worse than daemons around here. She isn’t sure she particularly cares for that description but doesn’t object.

Without Jarvis, without the 116th, she finds herself growing restless again. She sits with Lynch for longer in the evening, goes for a late jog through the camp regardless of the weather, climbs the buildings for a bit of a challenge. Goes to bed early, lies awake in a bed that is perfectly suited for one person, yet now seems vast and empty.

Weakness, she tells herself. A dangerous weakness.

And yet.

The ships return on the third night, loud enough to wake her. She tries to count them, isn’t sure she gets the number right but thinks it sounds like fewer than were sent out. It is difficult to go back to sleep after that.

Lynch informs her that the first wave of wounded have been returned during breakfast, mentions something about one of the commissars being badly injured but nothing that truly matters to her. He spends most of the morning in a long meeting with the rest of command while she waits outside the big double doors with the other guards, quiet, unmoving, mind racing.

It is only when they sit down for lunch that he finally tells her anything important.

“I will not require you for an hour or two,” he says, doesn’t seem to realize that he doesn’t require her at all, cooped up safely in camp as he is. She has noted his aversion from going into the field, seeming to prefer to coordinate and track gathered information from a safe distance. “I thought you’d like to go to the hospital wing,” he adds, providing the context needed for his previous comment to make sense. “Your guardsman seems to have been injured.”

“Is it bad?”

“It doesn’t say,” he says, gesturing at his dataslate. “Alive and getting treatment. We lost a lot of men though,” Lynch goes on, grimaces. “Colonel Oswick’s plan was solid, but there was heavier resistance than expected. More damn daemons and locals.”

She is thankful to Lynch, both for letting her go and for implying clearly enough that it is expected of her. Jarvis is aware that she has a gap in her understanding of social interactions the size of the Eye of Terror. He understands, forgives. Still. She wants to improve, do right.

It takes a good ten minutes before Holly can convince someone in the hospital to guide her to a specific patient. They are overwhelmed with all the injured brought back from the ravine, and it provides an easy excuse for refusing to assist her. She isn’t proud of resorting to grabbing an orderly by his skinny neck and pressing fingers into sensitive nerves, but it helps convince him that he is, in fact, not too busy after all.

They push the doors open to an overcrowded room lined with beds, a solitary tall Hospitaller bent over a familiar figure. Shirtless, covered in a pale grey blanket from the waist down, lying on a simple bed. Looks peculiarly vulnerable.

“You may go,” Holly says, releasing the orderly. He wastes no time, stumbles over his own feet in his rush to get away from her.

The guardsmen in the beds closest to her are unsettled, some recognize her, others seem confused as to why they have woken up. She barely notices. Watches and waits until the sister finishes the stitches, not daring to move closer and startle her until the task has been completed.

“I apologize, sister,” she says softly, bows her head a little as she approaches. Sees the other woman tense for a moment when she gets close enough.

“Holly!” Jarvis sounds surprisingly cheerful, wide smile, dimple, crow’s feet, no denying that he is happy to see her.

She gives him a kiss, sits down on the edge of his bed, takes his hand, looks at his chest. There are multiple wounds that have been stitched, a rolling table stand on the other side of the bed, within easy reach for the sister. On it the necessary equipment for the job and a small metal bowl, shiny but for the blood smudges.

“Are you badly injured?” she asks, forgetting to frown but Jarvis doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll be fine,” he insists. “Small got shot in the hand and proceeded to finger me. Could have done without that, to be honest.”

She blinks, looks at him, the crooked smile, looking at her expecting a reaction. She glances down at the stitches the Hospitaller is cleaning up, bandaging. The bowl with bloody metal pieces.

Ah.

“I don’t remember giving permission for that,” she says, smiles.

“I don’t know what to say, babe,” his smile grows wider, the sister rolls her dark eyes as she works. “He got Wechsler in the arm too. You can have a word with him once they’re done, I don’t know, fitting him with a new one or just removing the damaged parts for now.”

“I’ll pay him a visit for sure,” she agrees. Not so sure if Small will appreciate it, but she supposes it is a gesture she should extend to him as well. “But I expected better of you.”

“It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Not for a while at least,” the sister speaks up, evidently not as amused. “You’re staying put until we know your bowels are fully functional.”

“It was a very deep fingering,” he adds, for Holly’s benefit. She pauses at that, not as amused now, looks at his bandages, up at his face, to the Hospitaller.

“Is it very bad?” she asks.

The woman looks like she wants to say yes, as punishment for making her endure the off-color humor, but she shakes her head.

“Probably not. It’s precautionary.”

“They just want to make sure I’m not full of shit.”

The sister lets out a deep, irritated sigh. A joke she has evidently heard many times and not enjoyed once. Holly looks at him, raises an eyebrow.

“Are you on painkillers by any chance?”

“Oh yeah,” Jarvis nods, seems quite pleased with the fact.

“He’ll get a reduced dose now that the foreign objects have been removed,” the sister informs them both, finishing up bandaging him.

“Mm,” Holly squeezes his hand a little. “Try to behave. I don’t want them to smother you in your sleep.”

The Hospitaller wipes her hands on an already bloody towel, rolls the little table out of the room without another word. Holly stays for a while to fuss over Jarvis’ injury, over his discomfort. Watches him watching her. Likes the softness that settles over his scarred features.

She finds Small in a waiting room for amputees, leaning back in a chair, eyes closed. Most patients are lying in beds or on the floor, groaning, wrapped up in bandages and misery. Not so the medic. He opens his eyes as he notices her approach, grows tense, uncomfortable with her aura even when she suppresses it to the best of her abilities.

“Bleak?” he says as she stops at a distance that she deems a reasonable compromise between familiarity and respect for his discomfort. It does require the hospital staff to weave past her, pass through her aura. Truth be told there is nowhere she could stand that wouldn’t fill the room’s limited open space with the cold she brings with her yet cannot feel.

“Small,” she says, holds one hand in the other in front of her. “I was told you were shot.”

He seems confused? Surprised? She isn’t sure. Finds him more difficult to read than most.

“Yeah, lost a hand,” he says after a pause. Raises his left hand, wiggles the thumb and a little stump that once was part of the index finger. The rest of the metal hand has been blown off, some of it bent or melted in the process. “Jokes on them, it was the one I lost four years ago. Couldn’t hold my lasgun after that though. There’s more people left on planet than we thought, but at least we found out where all the stolen weapons have gone, so I guess there’s that?”

He has already spoken more to her now than during their entire expedition together or during any evening she’s visited them in the barracks. His voice is on the monotone side, but today there is a little bit of energy, less reservation. More like how Jarvis and Wechsler describe him. Either he has gotten more used to her, or he is bored beyond belief. She is willing to wager on the latter.

“You’ve been waiting long, I take it?”

“Eh, I recon I’m last in line, on account of neither pain nor bleeding,” he looks up at her, glances at the patient next to him, shrugs. “Commissar Varela went and punched a daemon like a damned madwoman. Pretty sure she’s the one they’ve been working on all morning. Turns out that punching something covered in acidic ooze might not have been the most strategical choice, though I’m sure it looked real badass for those that weren’t in the back of a mangled flank. I guess we kind of got lucky,” Small says, looking at the scraps that were once his prosthetic. “I got hit pretty early, got pushed to the back. I think there’s going to be a lot of empty cots in the barrack tonight.”

“The Emperor protects,” she nods, is immensely grateful.

“The Emperor protects,” he echoes, seems to mean it too. “Even misplaced veterinarians. How’s Eade?”

“Annoying a Hospitaller with crass jokes.” Jarvis can sigh all he wants about Coleman’s sense of humor, but it is abundantly clear where the younger man picked it up.

“Pretty alright then?”

“Under the circumstances, yes. He’s staying for observation, but he’s been seen to.”

“That’s good,” he nods, seems to sink a little deeper into the chair. Looks at her, quickly looks away, frowns, opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“It might be offensive.”

She mentally steels herself. Tries not to speculate about what he is going to ask. Finds that she feels more anxious than annoyed. Wants to get along with him, isn’t sure she will be able to if his question is genuinely off-putting. Nods.

“Eade threatened to bounce us off a ceiling if we made comments about the whole untouchable thing, but that was before we met you and it’s been a while and I don’t think I’ll ever meet another so, uh…”

They look at each other in silence for a moment, uncertain, uncomfortable. He isn’t looking her in the eyes, she realizes after one, two seconds. He’s watching the tip of her nose.

“Go ahead.”

“So, an untouchable is basically a mutant, right?”

“I… don’t like being called that,” she says, tries to keep her tone soft, non-hostile. Can’t help but to get the feeling that he doesn’t notice, doesn’t care. “But yes. In the same way a psyker is.”

“Right, so… are you physically any different from a regular human?” Small looks at her, attentive, inquisitive.

Holly looks at him, blinks. The question catches her off-guard. It is far less offensive than the preamble led her to believe. She supposes it isn’t unthinkable that someone who is technically a mutant would have mutations. In a way, she supposes she does, but not the kind he is asking about.

“You could have asked Jarvis if you wanted to avoid offending me,” she points out.

“Eh, he’d assume I was asking what you look like naked and get pissed,” he says with a certainty that suggests that it has happened before. “I mean from a medical perspective. And if there’s something internally different, such as the heart being on the right side or the like he wouldn’t know anyway.”

“Just the standard organs,” she assures him. “Usual number of limbs, where they typically go. If it weren’t for my movements and the aura, you would think me a normal human. I have had some repairs and replacements, not unlike you.”

He wiggles his metal thumb at that, nods. Seems to find her answer acceptable, perhaps relieved that she isn’t offended after all.

“These teeth are new,” she says, pointing them out. Tries not to think too much of how soft the eldar flesh was, yet how resilient the muscles were when she tore at them. “This bone is metal,” he gestures to her right lower leg, moves her hand to her right lung. “This lung has been replaced. One ovary removed.”

“Tumors?”

“No. My condition is genetic, to some degree at least,” she tells him. Wouldn’t normally offer this much information about her medical history, but it seems to be a topic that genuinely interests him. “A safety precaution, I believe they called it.”

The decision had been made for her when her untouchable superiors had unanimously agreed that further training was not going to make her any stronger, was better off being traded. Nobody told her what they were going to do with her ovary, but she could guess. With any luck they would get viable untouchables from her eggs. Perhaps they improved the odds by making similar demands from male untouchables. At any rate, it wouldn’t be cloning. It wouldn’t keep a healthy untouchable from the field. It was a sensible decision.

The idea of having children she has never known unnerves her, but it is for the betterment of the Imperium. It is a small sacrifice.

“They let me keep the other one,” she adds, smiles to show she isn’t bothered. Doesn’t mind. That it is fine.

He seems satisfied with that, nods, shifts his legs a little, tries to make himself more comfortable in a chair that never had comfort in mind at any stage of its design process. She watches him for a moment before deciding that fair is fair. 

“May I ask you a question?”

“Go on.”

“Wechsler said that you castrated a man. Is that true?” she asks. The man in the bed next to Small takes a break from groaning in agony and stares in silent horror, having overheard too much.

Small doesn’t look like he has it in him. He has the kind of pale skin that never tans, an angular bone structure with no room for fat, a thin build that might contain a wiry strength but insinuates fragility, is between Roth and Wechsler in height, shorter than Holly, short by most standards. His neutral expression makes him look tired, is always soft spoken. The end result is a sickly appearance, a suggestion of weakness, frailty. The medic meets her eyes for the first time during the conversation.

“No,” he says quietly, looks down, wipes a hint of a stain from his pantleg. “I’ve castrated four. They were slow learners, but if you act like an animal, you get treated like an animal. It’s not that difficult.”

He glances up at her, quickly, trying to gauge her reaction. She offers him a smile, soft, friendly. Isn’t sure if it is suitable for the situation, but he doesn’t seem to react negatively to it. It is only then that he seems to remember that there are people around them, that they have been overheard. Sees the horrified expression of his neighbor, rolls his eyes.

“We’ve got four commissars now, of course,” he adds, sounds a bit annoyed that he has to clarify what should be obvious. “And working with actual soldiers, not a feral penal legion. I’m pretty sure I won’t need those skills for a while.”

It doesn’t seem to do much to comfort the man missing both of his legs, already pale from blood loss no doubt, but Small seems to deem the issue sufficiently smoothed over. Decides to move on to tell her about the medical procedures that is going to be required for the tall commissar and his fellow patients. He goes into too much detail, further distresses the other patients, doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on her placid reaction. She stays as long as the time window Lynch gave her allows, listens, nods, frowns when appropriate, does her best to shift her weight a little every now and then.

Before she leaves, she promises Small that she will try to get him some reading material to keep him busy. Gets a metal thumbs up as a response, the medic seeming to be in better spirits than he has any rights to. 

When Jarvis opens the door to the common room two nights later, she barely recognizes him. No, that is not true. She recognizes him. He looks worn, gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, broad shoulders a bit slumped. She recognizes the burned man as he just about manages a smile for her, though she has not seen him in almost two months.

“Commissar,” he says, the weariness evident in his tone. “Holly.”

“Eade,” Lynch says, frowns, looks him up and down as Holly gets to her feet. “You sure you’re ready to be up and about?”

“You don’t look well,” she says, takes his hand, puts her other hand on his arm. “I can escort you back to-”

“No, no I’m alright,” he insists. “I’m just tired. I’ve barely slept, is all.”

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep where you stand,” Lynch says, not particularly delicately.

“Seems about right, commissar,” Jarvis replies. The accompanying smile is thin, forced, humorless.

“Sir,” she starts, turning to look at Lynch. He shakes his head, gestures towards the hallway that leads to her room.

“Get your man to a bed. I’m not pulling my back picking him off the floor.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, commissar.”

“Yes, yes,” he shoos them away, picks up the dataslate, pays them no heed as she leads Jarvis away. 

He can walk on his own, Holly has no doubt about that, but she still holds on to his arm, as if he might evaporate if she lets go. He walks slowly, she notes, as if he might really fall asleep if he just gave himself permission. She wonders if he would keep walking in his sleep, or collapse on the floor, if he would wake up on impact.

“Haven’t you slept at all?” she asks quietly as she opens the door to her room, turns on the lights.

“A little, here and there.”

They step inside, she closes the door, turns to remove her weapons but is held back by a large hand on her shoulder. She’s pulled in for a hug, carefully angled so that she only touches his uninjured right side.

“I missed you,” he whispers into her ear, his voice sounds unsteady.

“I missed you too,” she assures him, reaches up to stroke his face. Watches him struggle with something that can’t seem to make it past his lips. He looks like he’s about to cry, but finally shakes his head, closes his eyes, buries his face in her hair.

It is unfamiliar territory, so she waits, not sure what to do, what to say. Quietly holds him until he slowly eases his grip of her. Once he lets out a deep sigh and stands up straight again, she takes him by the hand, leads him to the bathroom.

“Come on,” she says. “Have a seat, brush your teeth.”

He complies and she unlaces and takes off his boots, carries them out to the bedroom, places them side by side against the wall next to the door. Easy to find, out of the way. Removes her weapons, shoes, jacket. Hears him hiss in pain as he tries to free himself from his clothes, quickly walks over to assist. Peeling the sweater off of him proves to be the worst part, forcing him to move his arms above his head, pulling at the stitches.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she folds it, puts it away on the dresser, on the opposite side of where the laundry pile goes.

“Not your fault,” he assures her, slowly unbuckling his belt. She knows, but she is sorry anyway. For unintentionally hurting him, for not insisting on staying the night with him in the hospital regardless of protocol, for not going to the ravine with him, for not arguing with Lynch when he warned her that he was sending Jarvis along with the rest.

They get him down to his undershirt and underwear before they both agree that that is enough. He usually sleeps naked but neither of them wants to repeat pulling anything over his head. She folds his clothes, put them away, undresses, pulls on the rust red nightgown, gets ready for bed as he carefully lies down.

“Holly, sweetheart?” he says, watching her as she brushes her teeth.

“Mm?”

“Is it alright if I just go to sleep? I missed you, I missed your voice, I really want to spend time with you but I’m so fucking tired I can’t think.” He sounds miserable. She feels her movement slow, come to a stop. Goes over his words in her head. Suspects she would tear up if she could. Turns around, spits out the toothpaste.

“Of course,” she says softly, hands moving as she speaks, rinsing, tidying up. Feels her heart beat the same steady rhythm, yet somehow it seems more pronounced. She turns off the light, makes her way to the bed, lies down next to him, half on top of him, feels the pleasant pressure of his arm around her.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “The meds aren’t anything close to what they gave me the first day.”

“Probably because they were removing fingers from your stomach,” she says, pulls the cover over them.

“She confiscated my lho-sticks too.”

“Sounds like a reasonable safety procedure.”

He gives her a half-hearted grunt in response, indicating that he doesn’t quite agree. If he was in better shape, he might argue that it was done out of spite, doesn’t have the energy for it now. They lie quiet in the dark, too early for her to sleep, but waiting for him to do so. After a little while she reaches up to stroke his hair, is rewarded with a soft sigh.

“Talk to me?”

“About what?” she asks.

“Anything.”

She racks her brain for something she can tell him, something which isn’t sensitive, isn’t upsetting, something safe. A face resurfaces, after many years of unimportance. Very well. It will do.

“When I was a child there was a man who came over every couple of months,” she tells him, tells the dark. “We didn’t have many visitors because of me. He was part of the hab block police. Would sit and talk with my mother for an hour or two. He greeted me when he arrived, said goodbye when he left, but kept his distance. I wasn’t very good at containing my aura back then. I tried but it was a lot of trial and error.”

“Her boyfriend?” he asks. She hadn’t expected questions. Loses her train of thought.

“I… don’t know. I don’t think so. I think maybe a relative, hers or my father’s. He might have been my father. I don’t know. I just knew him as officer Skinner. To be honest, I think he was afraid of mother. A lot of people were.”

“Mm.”

She tells him of the errands her mother would take her on, fairly regularly. Visits to strangers, polite conversations with nervous people. How she was never really certain exactly what her mother did to support them. By the time she tells him about the untouchable her mother once worked with he is asleep, breathing deeply, arm heavy around her waist.

“They don’t let us run free,” she whispers to him, knows he can’t hear her. Knows this is as close as she is ever going to get to telling him. “Mother must have worked with some very dangerous people, whether she knew it or not.”

Holly grows quiet, feels guilty for having said too much. As if the Inquisitor will know, somehow. Knows that it is just unfounded anxiety. She has not been supervised for years. She supervises herself. Reliable. Faithful. Obedient. And yet.

She kisses Jarvis’ cheek, feels the stubble prickle her lips. No reaction, he continues to catch up on two nights of lost sleep. Maybe more. She lies in the dark next to him, quiet, unmoving, relaxed, quite content.

She listens to him sleep for the better part of an hour before she slips out of bed, out of the room. The dim light of the hallway is brighter than the darkness of her room, but not by much. She makes her way to the empty common room, the antechamber, enters the hallway to the front door. With only her nightgown to keep her warm the cold seeps into her body through the soles of her feet as she quietly walks towards the guards. It takes far too long for them to notice her.

“Excuse me.”

They flinch, she sees one hand reach for a weapon, never grasps it. Both stare at her, as if she is a ghost come to haunt them. It is the first time she addresses them; she supposes that is fair.

“Uh, yeah?”

“I need a pack of lho-sticks,” she tells them, waits as they process her statement, sees that they are taking in her state of relative undress. It is proper enough. Irrelevant. “I’ll pay,” she adds once she decides they have had enough time to think. Waits again.

The bearded one makes a humming noise, the younger one looks between her and him. Uncertain. She focuses her attention on the bearded one, he seems more likely to agree to her request. There are crumbs in his bushy red beard, she notes as he thinks it over.

“100 thrones,” he says, grins, glances at his companion who responds similarly, but his body language is smaller, hesitant.

Ridiculous. She knows how this game is going to go if she plays along and she is not interested in doing so. Holly looks him in the eye, unblinking, unmoving, unfurls her aura just enough so that it reaches him, watches him flinch ever so slightly.

“I will give you 20 if you make it quick,” she tells him. It is still a ludicrous price for what she is asking, but he _is_ going to have to go bother people in the middle of the night and she doesn’t care, never buys things anyway. It is still such an absurdly good deal that he can pretend that he tricked her, can protect his ego.

He hesitates, seeming to realize that she expects him to go now, appears to make a calculation, the money versus the trouble. Glances at the other guard, the peer pressure that he has built up in his own mind seeming to push him into action.

“You just wait right there then,” he grins, cocky, pushes the door open before even buttoning up his coat.

She waits until the door closes, pulls back her aura again, looks at the remaining guard who is looking at her legs. Seems to realize that he has been caught doing so, looks away, tugs at a sleeve, crosses his arms. She observes him for a few seconds, takes notes of his movements, before turning around, returning to her room to fetch the agreed upon money. Jarvis is so exhausted that he doesn’t wake even as she slips into the room again, doesn’t stir as she pulls out a drawer, goes through its content. For a moment she considers putting on socks, but that drawer makes a screeching noise. Better to let him sleep.

She returns to the hallway, notes that the young guard is nervous, actually notices her when she steps into the same room as him this time. Her feet find the spot where she previously stood, still a degree or two warmer than the rest of the floor. Perhaps it is just her imagination. The room is cold and she has goosebumps forming on her skin. 

The guardsman takes his sweet time. She regrets deciding to not put on more clothes long before the door is pulled open. There is snow mingling with the food in his beard now, his pale skin turned red from the cold. She hears a muffled curse as he stomps the snow and mud off his boots, apparently the weather is particularly unpleasant tonight.

“Make that 30,” he huffs, peeling his gloves off his massive hands one finger at a time.

“We agreed on 20,” she reminds him.

“Yeah, well, I just got my ass handed to me for your sake, blank, so cough it up.”

Ah. She should have expected this, of course. Holly shifts her weight a little bit more over to her right foot, holds out one hand, palm up. Addresses him with the firmness reserved for psykers.

“20 and I won’t tell the commissar you abandoned your post for such a measly bribe.”

That catches his attention and she watches as realization sinks in. He clearly hadn’t thought of it as a bribe, or abandoning his post perhaps, but when viewed in the right light there is no doubt her threat has weight, a grain of truth. And it is no secret that Lynch gives her preferential treatment, would likely take her word over that of a guardsman, probably even two.

The distaste on the man’s face is evident, but he steps closer, places the pack into her open hand. She hands him the money without breaking eye contact. Is fairly certain she hears him call her a dumb bitch under his breath as he slinks back to his spot by the door.

“Good night,” she tells them, turns around, walks away.

Her feet are like icicles by the time she gets back to her room, slips the pack into Jarvis’ coat pocket, closes the door. Feels her way to the bed, to him, carefully climbs in, not wanting to wake him, hurt him.

Once morning comes, he struggles to wake, has a hard time sitting up. Holly doesn’t mention the lho-sticks, decides to let him discover the gift on his own during the day. He doesn’t shower in the morning this time, needs help to get dressed.

“Going to have to do it all over once I get to the barracks if I want clean underwear,” he mutters as he buckles his belt.

“If we go quickly, I can help you,” she offers. She can make it back again in time for breakfast, surely. “And maybe you can keep some spare clothes here? There is room in the dresser.”

He pauses at that, looks at her, the irritation and pain seeming to have dispersed for a moment. A smile, a nod. She dresses quickly, brushes her hair, her teeth, washes her face, helps Jarvis with the shoes, the sweater, the jacket. They keep a brisk pace as they head to the barracks, she holds on to his arm the entire way, not because he looks like he will collapse anymore, just because she wants to.

She is late for breakfast, but not by much. Apologizes for her tardiness, takes her seat. Her food and recaff are still warm. Pauses, tells Lynch that he has to reassign the two night guards. One for being bribed to leave his post, the other for standing by and letting it happen. He looks surprised, hears her out, agrees with her. Seems irritated but appears to take no umbrage with the fact that she was the one who bribed the man. It is only fair. It is her job to keep him safe, so testing the guards is not unreasonable. It is no different from determining if the desk would offer shelter in a firefight.

She helps Jarvis clean himself on the second day. On the fourth day he stops grimacing when undressing, though she suspects it still hurts to take off his sweater. On the twenty-second night they crawl into bed together, still fairly early, lie in the dark, talk quietly about insignificant things. His skin has healed, the deeper injuries will need more time, but she is growing restless. She is being ridiculous, of course, she knows that. It’s been three weeks. She managed to live without sex for over a decade. And yet.

“Are you tired?” she asks as the conversation lulls.

“I could sleep.”

“Hm,” she slips a hand down his stomach slowly, takes full advantage of the fact that he sleeps in the nude now that he no longer stays in the barracks, has some privacy. “Very tired?”

Hears him chuckle as she begins to stroke him, feels him start to grow hard in her hand.

“I’d love to, but I’m not allowed to move around that much,” he says, leans closer to her, finds her forehead in the dark, kisses it.

“I can do the moving,” she offers. Wechsler has been quite… descriptive. Holly might be lacking in experience, but she feels that she has a pretty good idea of what she ought to do.

“Mmm,” he takes a slow, deep breath. She feels his hand reach up, cup her breast. “If you turn on the lights.”

“Hm?”

“You see, my girlfriend is too pretty to fuck in the dark,” he whispers in her ear, gives her breast a squeeze. “I want to see you.”

It is the first time he calls her that. Says it with such casual, practiced ease that she wouldn’t be surprised if he has referred to her as such before, when she wasn’t around. She lies still for a moment, bewildered, delighted, both for the acknowledgment and the acceptance. He notices, misunderstands.

“Unless she is very shy tonight?”

“She is not,” she assures him. Leans closer, finds his lips in the dark. Cups his face with her hands, keeps pressing her lips against his, over and over. Hears him chuckle, feels his hand stroke her side, slide down to the hem of her nightgown, push it up. The angle is awkward, she can tell that he can’t quite reach as much of her ass as he wants without shifting, doesn’t want to move onto his side.

“I’ll get the lights,” she tells him, feels his hand give up, pull back. Gives him a final kiss before getting out of bed, feels her way across the dark room, steps on his pants, the belt buckle cool against the sole of her foot.

She flips the switch, bathes the room in light, pushes the pants out of the path between the bed and the door. A part of her wants to take a moment and tidy up, fold his clothes, put them away. Doesn’t. He has shoved his boots up against the wall again, she notes, eighth time in nine days now. The jacket thrown onto the end of the dresser. Not orderly, but out of the way. She appreciates it, but doesn’t comment, doesn’t want to insinuate that she has been displeased in the past.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he grins at her, having propped himself up with both pillows, covers discarded. She smiles, reaches down, pulls the nightgown over her head, abandons it on the chair. Watches him watching her, smiles.

His bruises have mostly faded, a hint of yellow remaining around the new scars on his stomach. If she touches the wounded areas gently it doesn’t hurt, he has assured her, but she can’t apply pressure. She gets back into bed, leans over him, puts a little weight on his chest, gets no protest. Good. Leans in for a kiss, feels his fingers in her hair, his other hand at her waist, feeling the curve of her hips. One kiss becomes many, only stop when he speaks.

“I wish I could take you out somewhere nice,” he says, watches her with that soft expression again. She pushes herself up, to better see him, feels his fingers caress her cheek.

“You sort of did,” she says, doubts there are any nice places on Eden 39. If there once were, they are long since flooded or bombarded.

“I wouldn’t really call that a nice outing.”

“I liked it,” she assures him, trailing the angles of his face with her fingers.

“I was thinking more of a you and me thing, with no daemons.”

“I liked the hunt, and the company.”

He rolls his eyes, smiles, pulls her down for another kiss.

“Then I will have to be glad that you had a good time,” he relents. “I tried talking to one of the guys in charge of vehicles, but it was a firm no to drive you out of camp for an hour or two unless the commissar came down and ordered it himself.”

She is not surprised. She might be considered the least human among them, but she is still indisputably the most valuable person on the planet. There is an irony in that, she supposes.

“I am quite content spending time with you in camp,” she assures him, means it, but wishes Lynch would send her on missions. Feels her skills are wasted.

“I suppose there are no good views with this weather,” he murmurs, pats her ass once, twice. “Well, one good view.”

“I don’t know,” she says, running her fingers over his chest. “I can think of at least one more than that.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Jarvis smiles, leans up to kiss her nose, her lips. Sinks down on the pillows again, lets out a strained sigh.

Holly sits up, watches his face relax after a little moment.

“You ok?”

“I'm great, babe, but I’ll just… be lying down for this one, ok?”

“Yes,” she smiles, strokes his chest. Looks down his body, back to his face. “One thing?”

“Mhm?”

“I was thinking…” she draws a circle against his skin with a short fingernail.

“Marvelous.” He holds up his hands defensively when she stops, laughs as she presses her lips together, meets his eyes. “Sorry, sorry, go on.”

“I’m not sure I will.”

“No, no, come on, Holly, please.”

She looks at him for a second, two, shifts her weight, pushes a stray strand of black hair behind her ear.

“I think we’re going to need you a bit more attentive than this,” she says, runs a finger down the center of his torso.

“Ah, right,” he reaches for his cock, she places a hand on his, stops him. “Hm?”

“Let me,” she kisses his cheek, feels his hand relax, fall back against the sheets as she begins to trail kisses down his neck, chest, stops by his navel, the angle too awkward to continue. Hesitates, looks at it for a moment, up at him.

He’s different, she reminds herself. Scoots further down the bed, straddles one of his legs, leans forward to taste his skin again, feels his stomach move as he breathes under her lips.

“I was thinking,” she pauses, looks up at him. No comment this time. “If… Promise you won’t hold me down?”

“Of course?” he looks as confused as he sounds. She doesn’t elaborate, plants one, two kisses further down, left hand on his hip to support her weight a little, glances up at him, a bit nervous. Shouldn’t be, is anyway. Strokes him slowly before taking him in her mouth. “Oh.”

The skin is so soft against her tongue, she wonders how she could forget that. Hears his soft groan as she circles the head with her tongue, wonders if it is she who is different. It is not unpleasant, feels almost like he is the vulnerable one. Perhaps it is the knowledge of what damage her teeth can do that has changed her perspective. Perhaps it is just simple trust.

Her eyes snap open as she feels his hand on hers, cupping her fingers with his, trapping her hand between his hip and hand. She slowly leans up a little, strokes him instead, meets his eyes. Always wants to feel, as if she might not be there for real if his hands can’t confirm it. She doesn’t mind, likes it. She is starved for touch, wants to be pressed up against him whenever possible. Compatible wants.

She leans down again, tastes him before gently sucking at the tip. Listens to the little noises he makes, inarticulate but more vocal than usual. Begins to relax, take him deeper into her mouth as she is allowed to progress at her own pace. Can’t take all of him, feels the discomfort, the convulsion threatening around the corner long before that. Doesn’t try to, pulls back a little, focuses on the head. Keeps working it well past he’s gotten pleasingly hard, enjoying his enjoyment. Her jaw begins to tire though, so she sits up again, wipes her mouth. Sees that now familiar softness in his eyes as he reaches out to stroke her face.

“You ok?”

She nods, smiles. Genuinely feels ok. Feels better than ok. Relieved. Having set out to climb a mountain only to find it was just a hill after all.

“So, was that the uh…”

Holly doesn’t wait for him to finish, moves to straddles his hips, careful not to touch his left side with her knee. Uncertainty sets in again. She has never enjoyed trying new things in front of others, but this is something that is going to be difficult to learn on her own. He watches her with an almost goofy smile on his lips as she reaches down, takes him in her hand, slowly lowers herself onto him. Hears him let out a soft sigh, familiar by now. She grows still, a little uncertain how best to approach this, glances up at him.

“Sorry, it’s just… I’ve never done this before, so…”

“Hey, Holly, babe,” he reaches up to stroke her face, her swollen lips. She leans down a little to help him reach from his prone position. “I am fucking delighted that you want to try, ok?”

“Ok,” she smiles. Sits up straight again, swallows, not certain where her arms are supposed to go. Moves to put her hands on his stomach for support, stops before touching him, remembering his injuries. Maybe this was a bad idea.

He puts his hands on her breasts, gently squeezes, slowly runs them down her body, stop at her hips. She feels the fingers dig in a little as he grips her before she puts her hands on his upper arms, slides one up to his hand. Less awkward.

She begins to move on top of him, small hip movements, watches him watching her. Starts slow, tries to get comfortable, get the hang of it. Feels his hands move with her, guide her hips. Relaxes.

As she rides him, she watches his face, listens to his breathing, feels his hands grip her just so. Appreciates the feedback, feels a little guilty for not being able to do the same for him without distracting herself too much to enjoy the sex.

There is something delightfully appealing about controlling the pace, the depth, the angle. She has become intimately familiar with what he likes, finds it easy to steady herself, push herself up, almost off him, slowly sink down again until he is fully sheathed in her, again and again. Eventually sinks down a little, moves faster, feels his fingers dig into her hips, quickly relaxes, fearful of hurting.

She missed this, missed feeling him inside of her, missed hearing his breathing changing. It will be a long while yet before he’ll be able to carry her weight and fuck her against the wall again, but this is good too.

Holly changes the angle of her hips a little, tries to make him hit the right spot inside of her. Releases his arms, leans back a little, finds that his thighs provide ample support, somewhere to put her hands. Lets out a little sigh as she finds a good angle, moves her hips faster. Closes her eyes, leans her head back, focuses on the sensation, feels the pressure build, yet the orgasm eludes her. She slows down, tries a more serene pace. Tries clamping down on him, hears him make a noise half gasp, half groan in response. Still finds herself teetering on the edge, frustratingly close, yet far away.

Perhaps today is just one of those days. Very well. She relaxes, pushes herself up into a sitting position, feels the gentlest of thrusting of his hips underneath her as she takes a moment. Shifts her legs a little, puts more weight on her knees as she leans forward instead, places her hands on either side of Jarvis’ head, meets his smile with one of her own. Leans down to kiss him, tenses inside again, makes herself tighter for him, begins to move once more, faster, harder. 

He comes groaning against her lips, one hand around her back, the other holding on to her thigh. She kisses him slowly as he finishes, his hips moving to meet hers perhaps a little too much for what is good for him.

“Pretty sure that was beginner’s luck,” he tells her, his voice serious, but seemingly unable to stop smiling. “But you are welcome to prove me wrong.”

“Mhm? Is that so?”

“I’m pretty convinced,” Jarvis runs his hands through stands of black hair that seem determined to not stay in place. Lets go of her, pats the space beside his head with both hands. “But for now, get up here.”

“Uh,” she hesitates, sits up again, looks down, back at him. His gaze followers her, grins.

“Please, babe, I’ve sucked cock. I’m not scared of a little bit of semen. Come on, sit on my face. I want to hear you make those pretty little gasps.”

He pats the mattress again, and she complies, gets off him, up on all four, carefully makes her way to the head of the bed, facing the wall. Up close it becomes painfully apparent that it is in dire need of a new coat of paint. She counts no less than five different shades of off-white before she’s found a comfortable position. Jarvis grabs her ass, pats it, takes a moment to squeeze more than a little before guiding her down ever so slightly so he can reach her.

She feels his breath tickle her before she feels his tongue, wide and flat against her, hardly any pressure applied as he starts low, slowly moves upwards. She is already so excited that that gentle sensation alone is a delight. He proceeds slowly, which is frankly unfair, she has already worked herself up plenty and to no release. Tells him as much, hears him make a small acknowledging noise, press his tongue against her a little harder, but not by much. Still takes his sweet time before intensifying, grabbing her ass with both hands, fingers digging in. Finally shifts to pressing his mouth against her, sucking ever so gently at her clitoris.

Her breath comes out unsteadily as she leans her forehead against the wall, delights in the now familiar sensation. It usually sends her over the edge in short order, and yet it is not enough tonight. Even as Jarvis intensifies the pressure all she can do is enjoy the waves of pleasure, mingled with frustration.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, feels him lean his head back, hears her out. “I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“Hm,” he lets out a sigh through his nose, the air tickling and cool against her. Feels his hand move from her buttock, slide between the cheeks, a finger gently pressed against her anus. “We can try to add this?”

“Will it hurt?” she asks.

“Shouldn’t. We’ll take it slow, if you want to. You say stop, I stop.”

“Just one,” she tells him, willing to try, but also aware that his fingers are quite large.

Hears him hum underneath her, sounding far less frustrated than she is. The hand moves underneath her, she feels a finger slide up to her cunt, push inside, thrust slowly a couple of times. Not unpleasant, but not what she expected.

“What…?” she looks down. It is a peculiar view, seeing him between her breasts, her thighs.

“Waste not, want not?” he tells her. Pulls out his finger, presses his lips against her, a flicker of the tongue. She lets out a soft sigh as he circles her asshole, slowly begins to press against it, push inside. It is a slow process, waiting for her body to stop resisting, allow the first knuckle in. It is a peculiar feeling, not unpleasant. Becomes quite enjoyable once she relaxes, once he can begin to finger her, tongue once more lightly pressing against her.

He takes it slow, there is no denying that. Agonizingly slow. By the time he presses his lips against her again, puts some pressure behind his tongue, her breathing is heavier than her immobile position warrants. She breathes through her mouth, closes her eyes. Feels him speed up, apply more pressure, pace good and steady, finger and mouth in tandem. Her breath comes out as a strangled whimper as she once more finds herself on the edge. Finally, mercifully, pushed over it, her muscles tensing, almost chipping for breath, the tingling warmth practically shoots through her, achingly welcome.

She feels her legs tremble underneath her, steadies herself against the wall, hands and forehead pressed against the cold surface. It is a stark contrast to the warmth between her legs. Her breath slowly steadies, Jarvis relents, slowly removes the finger, his other hand easing its grip of her ass.

Once her breathing has calmed a little, she moves off him, lifting her legs higher than necessary. Supports herself against the wall, one foot finding the floor, then the other. Sits down on the edge of the bed, scoots down to cuddle, pauses. 

“You… you’ve got a little something on your face,” Holly says, reaches out, wipes a little of the mess off his chin.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, sounds quite pleased with the situation. “I’m going to have to get up, I know.”

“Do you need help?”

Jarvis hesitates, glances down at his stomach, looks back at her.

“I want to say no, but I fear it’s a yes.”

She helps roll him over onto his right side, watches him heave himself onto his feet, head to the bathroom. He might be in pain, but she is grateful that he came back at all. Can’t help but to appreciate that his injury will keep him in the base for weeks, close to her, as safe as he can be under the circumstances.

It is selfish, Holly knows. Knows that duty should come first, always. That she should wish for a speedy recovery so he can get back to work. But here and now she allows herself to feel it, to enjoy not having to worry. To pretend that there is no duty. Dangerous thoughts, but they are temporary. Tomorrow she will return to duty, but here and now, in this room, it is allowed.


	7. Traitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I would like to thank the Uplifting Primer for solving all my “what is the appropriate punishment for X” needs, with a side of “what the fuck” because this is the second time I’ve been wasted time googling, given up, opened an official book and found the answer on the first page I look at.

The first hour of the day progresses slowly. Quiet, familiar, pleasant. Jarvis wakes, kisses her good morning, showers, dresses, kisses her goodbye, leaves. She remains in bed for another ten minutes, rises, goes through the morning procedure herself. Heads to the dining room, is firmly ignored by the steward, sits down. Greets Lynch when he arrives, share the day’s first meal.

Reading the morning missives brings a genuine smile to Lynch’s lips, fork halfway to his mouth, frozen in place as his eyes go over the text. Holly doesn’t have to wait long before he excitedly tells her that a guardswoman has been caught carrying a crate of provisions to a small hiding spot at the edge of camp during the night. Interrogations are in order.

After breakfast Lynch is still in a good mood. So good, in fact, that he abandons the paperwork he more and more frequently submerges himself in. Takes Holly out for a welcome walk, inspects the barracks, chats with the occasional more or less uncomfortable guardsman. The weather is nice today. A little bit of sunshine to warm them, though it melts the morning’s light snow quickly, make the muddy roads more slippery than usual.

It is a nice change of pace. She would prefer to be sent on a hunt, but this is better than the office with the hard couch or standing guard outside the meeting room for hours.

“You’re doing a good job keeping it tidy,” he informs a man Holly vaguely recognizes. Neatly trimmed beard, ample gut, a fresh cut at the bridge of his nose up to his left eyebrow, just below where the helmet would protect him.

“Thank you, commissar.”

It is clear that barrack 17 is ruled by a stricter hand than the rest. The higher-ranking guardsmen that live there evidently care a little bit more about folding, orderly storage of private property, and, she can’t help but to note, regularly emptying ashtrays. There are actual ashtrays to boot, not just a sad cup enduring an undignified new existence. Jarvis would consider this level of order as tedious and performative pedantry, she has no doubt.

They stay a little while as Lynch talks to the man, apparently deemed a representative for barrack 17, asks questions, actually listens to the answers. Holly can’t help but to notice that the answers are more or less the same as those provided in the other barracks. The food is alright. They appreciate that he allows the shoddily produced alcohol. The rookies are shaping up. It is cold.

She finds it telling that they are not complaining about the enemy, the mines they have to scour, or even the food. One and all they agree that the cold is what troubles them.

It troubles her too. It isn’t even winter yet.

“Perhaps it would be a good idea to put up some proper barracks, sir,” she says softly as they step outside again. The buildings that are referred to as barracks are, after all, repurposed storage facilities. Built to keep goods out of the rain and wind, not to protect a living being against the cold.

“That or use some of the cleared mines,” he agrees. “I have suggested the same to…” he gestures upwards with a finger. Means the rest of high command, not the navy as she had thought the first time he used the sign. “Unfortunately, I am in the minority who is not convinced that we’ll be done here before the real cold sets in. But perhaps I am wrong, and the captured traitor will be the key to sorting this mess out,” he smiles at her, the smile looks genuine, hopeful. Holly has her doubts, yet she returns the smile as they push open the door to barrack 19.

She realizes that something is wrong instantly. First, a large group of guardsmen are standing close to the door, an area normally avoided as it is particularly drafty. Second, they don’t disperse even as they are enveloped by her aura. Third, there is the issue of quite distinct angry curses and a loud crash further into the building.

It is not her that the guardsmen part before this time, but commissar Lynch who marches forward, every step a hard stomp against the concrete floor. For the first time she sees him as the guardsmen probably always see him. Tall, authoritative, absolutely capable of executing every last one of them if push comes to shove. It is quite a change from the man in the rumpled shirt who blabbers on about every little inconvenience and craves her attention more than actual interaction.

Holly follows in Lynch’s wake, face still, hands close to her weapons. Two guardsmen are fighting, seems not to have noticed them. Have knocked over a table, its contents scattered across the floor. Cards, cups, a hat in need of mending, a solitary misplaced fork.

She isn’t surprised when she sees that one of the men is Jarvis. Is aware that he has a temper, remembers him shouting at her after her dip in the river, the rest of the 116th’s casual mentions of his outbursts. Mostly bark and rarely bite, as Wechsler puts it. Holly suspects that she shouldn’t be present for this, but duty prevents her from leaving.

“That is quite enough!” Lynch raises his voice, painfully loud.

The men evidently recognize his voice, disentangle from each other, leap to their feet. Stand at attention, breathing heavily.

She recognizes the other guardsman. In his twenties or thereabout, a small scar on his upper lip, used to stand guard at the front door to their living quarters during the night. Not the one who took the bribe – the bearded man spent a week in a small cell before execution despite Holly’s attempt at convincing Lynch that it was excessive, left her regretting that she told the commissar of the night’s events. This is the younger of the two. He’s taken at least one blow to the face, looks like he’s going to have an impressive black eye in not too long.

Jarvis has a bit of blood smudged on his face, a light nosebleed or a small cut, she isn’t sure. Is more worried about any blow to his not quite healed torso. Doesn’t want five weeks of healing to be undone. Yet Jarvis doesn’t seem particularly concerned about it, looks grim as he waits for Lynch to speak. Doesn’t have to wait long.

“Now, what is this about?” Lynch demands.

It seems to be the wrong question. She hears a few sharp intakes of breath from other guardsmen, a few of them shuffle further towards the door. The other man doesn’t answer, but the color drains from his face, Jarvis’ jaw tightens. Glances over at her for the briefest of moments, looks even angrier. Neither seem willing to answer, evidently know that they have to.

“Stannard asked what it was like to have the commissar’s sloppy seconds,” Coleman says from the sidelines, gets flustered when everyone turns to look at him. “What? We all heard him?”

“The-” Lynch stops himself, takes a deep breath, cheeks flushing red, almost the same shade of deep crimson as his collar. Holly steels herself for the oncoming storm, sees that she is not the only one.

The explosion is impressive. She has no doubt that he can be heard not just outside of barrack 19, but probably into the surrounding ones as well. To be in barrack 17, she muses as Lynch unloads on the guardsman. Praised for their orderly arrangements, seeing the commissar wander off in a good mood, and but a minute later hear him yelling about a stain on his reputation. Do they think that barrack 19 is in a state similar to a Nurgle worshipper’s toilet or do they suspect that something else is wrong?

Somewhere in the outrage of being accused of unprofessional relations Lynch does spare a sentence for respecting their fellow soldiers. Which is nice, she supposes, though it very much disappears in the no doubt genuine anger at being disrespectfully dragged into petty guardsmen squabbles. An answer is demanded from the young guardsman twice, though neither appear to be satisfactory, seem to only serve as a chance for Lynch to catch his breath before starting up again.

Commissar’s sloppy seconds.

Truth be told she isn’t surprised. Has noticed that Jarvis’ knuckles are bruised some evenings, signs of scuffles on his torso, occasionally his face. She doesn’t ask, knows he doesn’t want to clarify, pretends it’s from exercises. Doesn’t want her to know. As if she is unaware that the guards think he is taking advantage of her. That she is simple because she doesn’t talk, doesn’t react. But a hole is a hole. She has overheard them talking, their voices carrying more than they realize. She knows. Pretends that she doesn’t.

Touching the untouchable.

Stuffing the hollow.

Filling in the blank.

It had been a game once. Touch the untouchable. A small group of men on a ship she had been stationed on, when she was young, inexperienced. One of her first postings. One point for the arm or hand. Three for the face. Five for a breast. It had ended with one of them earning five points and a complimentary broken nose and arm. She had been reprimanded by her superior despite not using the blade end of her knife. Still. The game had ended.

She doesn’t tell Jarvis about such things. She doesn’t tell him a lot of things, truth be told. She can’t tell him of her position with the Inquisition, there are missions that are classified, things that are irrelevant. She places those sorts of experiences in a similar category. Protects him from the knowledge of things he cannot change. He is angry enough as it is about her previous partner, it doesn’t seem to matter if the young man caused her discomfort unintentionally or not. She doesn’t want him to know of the rest, of the people who genuinely meant harm. Wants him to be happy. Wishes that she hadn’t been here for this, could have allowed the charade of ignorance to continue.

Do the other commissars spend this long shouting at their subordinates? Probably not. The tall woman would certainly be heard across the entire base if she did. Is it a requirement to be a commissar? A set of massive lungs and the ability to shout so loudly that everyone within twenty meters are questionably blessed with tinnitus? She has never had to raise her voice with the psykers. It is enough to just speak firmly, coldly.

Lynch continues his rant for several minutes, red in the face, spittle flying. Occasionally he shifts his attention to include Jarvis in the excessive reprimanding, reminds them both that brawling is forbidden, but it is the other guardsman that takes the vast brunt of the commissar’s rage. He circles back to the blatant attempt to drag his name through the mud, brings up the young man’s previous failure to guard a door, now failing to follow even the simplest of regulations.

“- and frankly,” he goes on. The sudden _BLAM_ of the bolt pistol makes everyone flinch but her.

The guardsman collapses like a folding chair – ankles bending first, knees, hips, before falling sideways. The overturned table has caught most of the brain splatter. Holly blinks, watches Lynch holster his weapon again. Surprised that she didn’t even notice when he drew it. Too busy trying to block out the screaming to focus on his actions. An unsatisfactory performance from her, to be sure.

“I want to know if there is anyone else who feels an overwhelming urge to accuse me of engaging in inappropriate relations with my subordinates?”

As expected, no one says anything. There are a few nervous glances, but most seem to fear attracting the commissar’s attention by even the slightest hint of movement. Lynch turns to Jarvis who has stayed put, tense, jaw clenching and unclenching. The pool of blood from the body spreads, reaches his boots.

“Eade, you’re a fucking sergeant, you should know better. Kitchen duty for a week.”

“Yes, commissar. Thank you,” he says, eyes focused on a point somewhere in the distance, voice tense. Still angry, but admittedly not at Lynch.

“I want this place spotless within an hour. Beds made, boots shined, cobwebs gone, and no corpse or blood stains,” Lynch bellows, apparently not done hurting her ears. Turns around abruptly, coat billowing behind him. Holly can’t help but to wonder if he has practiced the move.

She glances at Jarvis, gives him a quick smile before turning around as well, follows Lynch as he stomps out of the building. Would like to stay, would like to talk to him, assure him that she doesn’t care about words, ensure that he isn’t hurt. Can’t. Where Lynch goes, she goes, whether she wants to or not.

He doesn’t take a direct route back to their quarters, but rather brings her along for an extended walk in the sunshine. The pace is a bit too fast for it to be a pleasant stroll.

She feels like she should say something. Doesn’t know how to approach the subject without angering him further. Without implying that the punishment did not fit the crime. _They were only words_ , she wants to say. Can hear the Inquisitor in her head, reminding her that some words must never be spoken. Perhaps these were such words, not heresy, not forbidden knowledge, but dangerous on a smaller scale.

What she is certain of is that the dead man only intended to pick a fight with Jarvis. Residual irritation for being punished for his companion’s indiscretions, only one viable target. It had been the worst possible timing, for certain, but it had probably not been anything more than that.

Truth be told, she doesn’t see it as all that different from some of Coleman’s jokes. She has heard him suggest that Jarvis must have offered Lynch sexual favors in order for her to be allowed to join them in the field on more than one occasion. Jarvis can laugh at those jokes, play along, has not once gotten as much as irritated with the younger man for such banter. There is some difference, she is certain. The exact difference eludes her though.

“Sir?” she says once Lynch has slowed down to a more reasonable speed. Seems to have calmed down a little.

“Yes, Holly?”

“I don’t think he meant for you to hear about… what he said. Or me, for that matter.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he replies, with a firm finality to his voice. “Reputation is everything. That sort of blatant disrespect is well outside the realm of what can be tolerated.”

She nods, not so much agreeing but agreeing to not argue any further. As she is walking a little behind him he probably can’t see, but her lack of verbal response doesn’t seem to bother him. They continue their walk for the better part of half an hour before he finally begins to head back towards their living quarters. They make it almost the entire way before they are intercepted, a profusely sweating guardsman runs up to them, skids to a stop.

“Commissar Lynch,” he practically wheezes. “Urgent, um… the uh, they need the untouchable. At interrogation.”

The untouchable. As if she is not standing right there. As if she doesn’t have a name.

Has she ever been annoyed at being referred to as such before? She can’t remember. This place is changing her, for good or ill she can’t yet say.

Holly is uncomfortably warm underneath her heavy winter coat by the time they step indoors. Begins to unbutton it as they head further into the building, are directed to the stairs down to the basement level. Further down a long hallway stand a handful of armed guardsmen and the blonde commissar, hovering over the shoulder of a short tech-priestess that is fiddling with a dataslate. Lynch instantly straightens up, proceeds at a more casual pace, forcing Holly to match him. She is attractive, the other commissar. Has a similar sharp bone structure as Lynch, prettily arched lips that look like they have never smiled, big brown eyes, long platinum blonde hair combed back. Always looks very put together, orderly, stiff. Her posture reminds Holly of some of her untouchable superiors.

“I was informed that you required an untouchable, Zima,” Lynch says before they are truly within talking distance, his voice carrying. If Holly were to describe the tone of voice he uses when he talks to the blonde commissar it would be something along the lines of “a needling little shit”, or “purposely smug” if she were feeling generous.

“Lynch,” she says, acknowledging his presence, however unwanted. And it is unwanted, that much is evident by her tone alone.

“And to think you complained when I filed the request all those months ago,” he sounds unbearably pleased with himself, even to Holly, more so than usual. Whether it is due to the prospect of proving his least liked co-worker wrong or a belligerent mood lingering after the day’s earlier incident, Holly isn’t certain.

The other commissar doesn’t take the bait, snatches the dataslate from the tech-priestess, ignores the whirring objection.

“In the future, keep your micro-bead on. I tried to reach you almost half an hour ago,” she shoots him a glare. “Halloway refused to talk, but the psyker was beginning to get some information out of her. Until said psyker started screaming and glowing.”

“You didn’t stay to see what would happen?”

“I saw enough,” she informs him curtly. “Something was coming out of his stomach.”

That’s bad. A portal, by the sound of it. Shouldn’t be an issue with a sanctioned psyker, but Holly has found that what should be and what is frequently fail to overlap.

“And you didn’t shoot-”

“If we have a specialist on site, we use them,” she interrupts, but fails to wipe the pleased expression off his face. “Of course, when I made that decision I erroneously assumed you would be here in short order.”

“Any description would be helpful, ma’am,” Holly says before Lynch has a chance to reply. This is not the time for another petty quarrel.

Instead of answering her the blonde commissar turns towards the tech-priestess that shuffles forward, wheezes as she talks.

“I have prepared the servoskull to record,” she tells them far too slowly. “We only require that the door is opened enough to send it in.”

Holly walks past them, watches the guardsmen flinch as she gets close, ignores them. Listens at the door. The walls down here are thick, the doors too. Interrogations are not meant to be overheard, yet she can hear the hint of screeching, giggling. The noise is familiar, she has a pretty good idea of what awaits on the other side, would still prefer to be certain that she is not underestimating the threat.

The servoskull hovers towards her, presses itself up against the upper corner of the door. She warns the people present before she unfurls her aura, covering them in an unnatural cold, listens to the giggling turn to shrieks on the other side of the door. Lynch is the only one who seems unaffected, the only one who knows what to expect. Also, the only one stubbornly determined to give the impression that he can’t tell what is bothering his fellow commissar.

One of the guardsmen open the door ever so slightly, lets the servoskull fly in, fly high up against the ceiling before they quickly slam the door shut again. The commissars huddle around the dataslate, trying to determine what it is that they are seeing. Holly waits patiently for them to realize that what is important is that she knows what’s in there. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to embarrass Lynch in front of his equal. Eventually the woman hands him the dataslate, he takes it over to Holly.

Nurglings, the room is crawling with them. She can’t even see the guardswoman, the psyker. Some are trying to throw whatever is at hand at the servoskull, though it is dodging the projectiles admirably. As it does so the video feed jerks around quickly, makes it nauseating to watch. She returns the dataslate to Lynch, nods.

“I can handle that alone,” she assures him.

“Do you need some other weapons, armor or…?”

“No,” she smiles politely, lips together, upper cheeks just barely assisting. Technically doesn’t need any weapons for something as puny as a nurgling.

“You can send it in,” the blonde commissar tells the guardsman in charge of the door.

It. She supposes that today is just one of those days.

“It wouldn’t kill you to call her Bleak,” Lynch snaps. Holly has no doubt that they didn’t get along before she set foot on Eden 39, but her presence has certainly not improved matters. 

Holly turns to the guardsman, blinks, gestures towards the door, draws a knife. The room is small. Cramped. A sword could easily become unwieldy. She hears the commissars lower their voices to bicker as the guardsman opens the door, lets her step inside. The door slams shut behind her.

The room is, indeed, full of nurglings. Small, fat, disease ridden, sharp teeth and claws. And also very, very weak. They have already backed away from the door, some ichor on the floor indicating that a few of them didn’t move fast enough.

“This is my base, not yours,” she tells them. Steps forward, hears the screeching, watches them crawl over each other to get away from her. The ones that get too far into her aura pop like zits. The room is going to require a thorough scorching and scrubbing after this.

One particularly brave fellow throws itself at her, manage to splatter her boots as it loses control of its form, is snuffed out of the Materium. She circles the table, finds the remains of the guardswoman. Chunks are missing from her face, her arms. Suddenly it becomes apparent what the nurglings were throwing at the servoskull. A poor way to treat an ally, but not unexpected. It was probably not the eternal life she was hoping for, if she even knew what she signed up for. Holly nudges the remains of the woman with her foot, gets no reaction. Well and truly dead.

She finds the psyker in a corner, chest cavity torn open, ribs visible, a flickering glow inside that struggles to stay alight as a desperate nurgling attempts to crawl back inside. It snuffs out as she steps up to him, another squelching pop as the daemon implodes.

“I’m sorry,” the psyker gurgles, his breathing labored. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes.”

She looks down at him. Recognizes him. Shoulder length brown hair, a bit on the greasy side, aquiline nose, thin lips, pale brown droopy eyes. His skin has gone a sickly shade of grey. One of the psykers that went to the ravine a little over a month ago. She supposes that they are all lucky that he kept it together then at least. Still. He is lost. She kneels down, pushes his head a little backwards, slits his throat, cutting deep. Feels his fingers cling to her sleeve. Waits as life fades, stays with him as he passes. The hand drops, she stays a little while longer. Closes his eyes. Normally doesn’t, but he held it together when it mattered. Feels that has earned him some dignity in death. Wipes the blood from her knife, sheathes it.

The last of the nurglings is trying to scratch its way out the door, its claws leaving noticeable marks. It shrieks, intensifies its efforts as she approaches it, holds its body together with an impressive feat of will for its kind. Holly slams her boot down on it, splattering it as well. Her shoes are going to need cleaning, maybe replacing altogether.

She gives the room a once over. A table, three chairs, two of which are overturned. Two corpses – one guardswoman, one psyker. A lot of ichor. Chunks of flesh, a small rock, an eyeball, all soaked in blood and ichor. The servoskull hovers above her, so she offers it a salute.

“All clear.”

If Lynch was smug before she went into the room it is nothing compared to when the door opens again. He is practically beaming, never having actually seen her in action before. She pulls in her aura again, wraps it close, gestures for the rest that they can come inside the room if they wish.

“She’s dead?” the blonde commissar asks, looking at the guardswoman’s corpse.

 _Evidently_ , Holly wants to say. Doesn’t.

“She was already dead by the time I stepped inside. Probably before we got word of the incident, ma’am.”

Judging by the look she gets she may as well have thrown the woman’s hat down a sewer drain. The phrase “if looks could kill” had always confused her, until she met the Inquisitor. The blonde commissar is not quite as intimidating, but the absolute loathing is not difficult to spot. Holly returns a blank stare, not sure what response would help in this situation, settles for none. It does not seem to improve the other commissar’s opinion of her.

“Well, that went well,” Lynch declares, determined to stoke the fire it seems. “Very good job, Bleak. See if you can get that recording to the men,” he turns to the tech-priestess who whirrs in a way that somehow conveys a question mark. “It will be good for morale.”

He calls her Bleak around the other officers, for an air of professionalism he doesn’t bother with when they are alone, sometimes not even around the guardsmen. She doesn’t mind. It is still her name. It isn’t _it_.

“Yes, com-” the tech-priestess wheezes.

“Hold that order,” the other commissar interrupts. “Prioritize putting together the information we got out of Halloway before this blew up in our face. Getting this planet under control is what’s important, not your vanity project.”

“It really is not complicated to transfer a video file,” the tech-priestess’ rasping voice is barely audible as the commissars begin to turn on each other again.

Holly wants to remind them that it is better to have a united front, save their bickering for when they are alone, but as far as she can tell they are never alone. Have no interest in being alone with one another. Except, perhaps, if it is to push the other out an airlock. She remains silent, still, waits. Takes comfort in the fact that they are, at least, keeping their voices down. Perhaps the guardsmen only hear a fraction of what is being said.

“And your lax hold of your regiment is sowing dissent. Get rid of the damned moonshine before the end of the week or-”

“I am not going to do that, Zima,” Lynch interrupts, sounds almost bored. He isn’t, Holly knows. Has heard him vent his frustrations about the other commissars more evenings than she would consider absolutely necessary. “We've had this conversation before.”

“Yes, we _have_ ,” she snaps, lowers her voice again. “It is a crutch that leads to unruliness and compromised missions. A weakness that should not be tolerated.”

“I am aware of your opinion.”

“It is not an opinion; it is a fact.”

“Your opinion on weakness, as a thing that should be stamped out,” he clarifies, only seems to annoy her further, quite likely on purpose. Still, she doesn’t contradict him on that point. “Your approach might work with your relatively inexperienced guardsmen. Mine, on the other hand, is mostly made up by veterans that have lost their whole regiment not too long ago. The largest group among the experienced lot are the Vostroyan guardswomen, and there’s thirty-seven of them. If you had the full human range of emotions, you’d understand that people like that might need a crutch to keep going.”

“The full human range of emotions?” she flushes with barely contained anger, snowy cheeks turning rosy. 

“Yes. You make a decent commissar as you are, I don’t deny that, but it has become quite apparent that-”

“It is done,” the tech-priestess interrupts, impatience seeping into her voice.

“What?”

“Both tasks are complete. I shall return to my regular duties now.”

At least the duo has the decency to look a little bit embarrassed as the short tech-priestess begins to shuffle towards the stairs, servoskull floating behind her. Holly clears her throat, pointedly attracts their attention though she is only interested in Lynch’s.

“Sir, I should replace my shoes as soon as possible,” she tells him. “Considering the nature of the daemons, I could risk tracking disease throughout the base otherwise.”

“Right! Yes, good point, Bleak,” he claps his hands, a move that makes the other commissar press her pretty lips together in a thin line.

One of the guardsmen is sent to fetch her replacement boots, another to locate a team capable of sanitizing the room. The blonde commissar walks further into the poorly lit hallway, away from them and the remaining guardsmen, to talk over her micro-bead in peace. Lynch remains with Holly, appears to be too pleased with her performance to allow the day’s earlier incident to bother him anymore.

Typically, when high command gathers in the meeting room, Holly waits outside together with a small group of guards. Twice before she has been allowed inside, when psykers had been consulted, to stand guard in a corner of the room. This is the first time she is allowed past the double doors without someone of a similar rank present. The first time command has been asked to wait for her, through no real fault of her own. Lynch insisted that she change her uniform as well, had a thorough shower before they went to the meeting. She didn’t object. Doubts it was quite necessary but complied. 

It is a spacious room, housing a large table, several evenly spaced chairs. A massive thick red rug covers the floor, its corners embroidered with something resembling the shape of the aquila in golden thread. It appears to have been brought with the army, is in too good a condition to have been among the furniture left behind by the locals. Her replacement boots sink into it, new, clean, polished. If she limits her view to that alone she can pretend that the base is in good order, not coming apart at the seams. 

There are more chairs around the table than there are people present. Four commissars, seven high ranking officers, and her. She waits as they review the video footage, discuss what little information that the now deceased psyker managed to extract from the guardswoman.

The tall commissar is, indeed, missing her right arm, seems a little paler than last Holly saw her. Still stands up straight, towers over everyone else in the room. Her voice is as loud as before, overpowering a room full of already very loud people with ease.

“You should send the untouchable into the field more often,” she tells Lynch before passing the dataslate to the woman beside her. “If only to deal with the little ones. We could save a lot of explosives.”

“She has fought daemons before?” the other woman asks, a colonel judging by her insignia. Her dark hair has started to go grey, has a deep scar running from the corner of her mouth almost to her ear, her entire cheek probably torn open at some point.

“Yes,” Lynch says, turns to Holly. “Isn’t that right, Bleak?”

“Yes, sir. I have even been sent on missions to aid Ordo Malleus in the past,” she tells them, providing perhaps too much of the truth for comfort. Conversation comes to an abrupt halt at the mention of the Inquisition, all eyes turn to her. Even Lynch looks shocked. “There are very few untouchables, especially trained ones,” she clarifies, tries to smooth things over. Has said too much. “We are in high demand. It is also our duty to protect humanity against its many enemies and our condition makes us particularly suited for dealing with the daemon, the psyker, even some xeno. I have no objection to going into the field, sir.”

“Hm,” the blonde commissar says, looks at Lynch, doesn’t elaborate. Appears to have made a point with the sound alone. Lynch doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at her.

Holly hears her own voice, quiet but recognizable on the recording, playing in the silent room.

“All clear.”

The colonel passes the dataslate on to the man on her right, nods.

“In light of this, perhaps it is best if commissar Lynch is the one to lead the next excursion and investigate further what little was extracted from Halloway before her demise,” she says.

Holly can’t help but to perk up. Field work, hunting, _finally_. There is a pause as the colonel’s words sink in, Lynch goes from annoyed to neutral, unconcerned. Not himself. He has slipped on his mask. Acts a part just like he asks her to.

“I have no objections to that,” he nods, looks at the short list of information that the guardswoman unwillingly parted with. “But I have to point out that we don’t have a lot to go on.”

“There have been recordings of activity in the 27G region,” the blonde commissar chips in. “It could very well be the hidden base referred to.”

“Ah. Yes,” his reply is stiff, his smile mechanical, the mask coming apart at the seams with the gentlest of prodding, much like the base.

“It’s been a while since your men saw battle,” the old commissar declares, sounds as if he is in good spirits. “It will be good for them to get back into the fight.”

“Half of them went with you and Varela when-”

“These short scouting missions are valuable, make no mistake,” he goes on, ignores the way that Lynch looks at him. “But they are soldiers, they need to fight every now and then to remember that.”

“Quite,” Lynch says stiffly.

Evening finds Lynch unusually irritable, but Holly doesn’t mind. Listens patiently, nods, makes a few noises to assure him that she is indeed listening, is interested. The fact that she was present for the near hour long arguing back and forth seems to be of no consequence. She notes with some approval that he is holding back on the alcohol. Lynch nurses the one glass throughout the evening, while grumbling about his fellow commissars and colonel Oswick in particular.

“It is idiocy to take teams that are doing perfectly fine scouting and clearing the damned mines, and demand they go into the field when there are other regiments available that are better equipped for that,” he huffs. “The other three regiments are cohesive units, not leftovers from half the galaxy and of every damn discipline the Imperial Guard has to offer. The sheer number of casualties among the ranks in the last major foray should have made it evident even to a simpleton that this is madness.”

Holly pauses at that. Realizes that in the delight of finally being allowed to do what she is good at, she has stopped observing, taking in what is actually happening. Lynch isn’t wrong. He evidently doesn’t want to go into the field himself and that is clouding his judgement, but he isn’t wrong.

Lynch’s regiment, the 472nd, is made up by a patchwork of old regiments that have all gone through the meatgrinder at least once. Xeno, daemons, regular human uprisings. It doesn’t matter what reduced their numbers. What matters is that they survived, were deemed fit to continue serving, and the Administratum didn’t forget about them. Added to their numbers are a healthy serving of rookies like Roth, that despite the label have survived for over a year.

As such the 472nd regiment is, for better or worse, made up by a large number of small groups of survivors. Holly doesn’t doubt that they are capable of working well together as a cohesive unit if put to the test, has seen no hostility between the groups, but they huddle together with old acquaintances in a way the other regiments don’t. They excel when divided into familiar units, given tasks suited for small groups. The upcoming excursion involves neither of those things.

Once Jarvis arrives, she bids Lynch a good night, the nagging thought at the back of her mind like an itch she can’t quite reach. No sooner has she taken off her jacket than she is pulled in for a kiss, Jarvis’ big hands traveling over her. It is nice, but she is too distracted, tells him as much. He understands in a way, and yet not.

“Nervous or excited about the outing?” he asks, gives her ass a final pat.

“More the latter than the former,” she admits, smiles.

It is not the thought of facing the enemy directly that troubles her. And yet, she doesn’t want to worry him with her concerns. Chooses to encourage the not unfounded idea that she is happy to be allowed to fight the enemy again.

She has to push herself to do it, but she reaches out, gently touches the little cut on his upper lip. Smaller than her scar. It evidently makes him uncomfortable, but she doubts it is because of the pain.

“Are you hurt?” she asks.

“I’m alright,” Jarvis assures her, smiles briefly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, he glances away, as if there is anything else in the little room that could possibly warrant his attention.

“What of…?” Holly carefully puts her hands against his stomach, watches his face.

“Don’t worry, babe,” he kisses her forehead. Evidently wants to drop the topic altogether. She doesn’t push it any further, lets it go, knows she won’t mention it again. So long as he isn’t hurt, all is well.

They turn off the lights, slip into bed, talk for a little while. She learns that he likes to bake bread, hopes that the cook will let him spend the coming week kneading dough but suspects it’s going to be something far more tedious. It has been a long while since she had fresh bread, misses the smell, tells him as much. Is promised at least a loaf before all this is over.

She likes their talks in the dark. There is no pressure to perform, to smile believably, to move her face and body to appear normal. Jarvis forgives her slip ups, doesn’t comment when she becomes still, yet she knows it is easier for him if she tries. In the dark there is only their voices and touch. Touch is straightforward, welcome, treasured.

He falls asleep on his side, turned away from her, her arm wrapped around him, nose just about touching his shoulder. She can’t sleep. Holly lies in the dark, quiet, still, listens to Jarvis breathe, can’t stop thinking about Lynch’s words.

Once again, she carefully gets out of bed, makes sure he is under the covers, stays warm, before she feels her way to the door. Opens it, slips out. Walks down the dark hallway, bare feet against cold floor, nightgown providing only the barest hint of warmth. Moves silently with ease. There is no one up to see her, hear her. The guards stay by the front door, will stay there unless summoned by word or sounds of conflict.

Holly treads the familiar path to the commissar’s office, pauses at the door. Waits, listens, hears nothing, no one. Opens it, listens to the creak of the door hinges, quickly steps inside, waits again. No one comes to investigate. She closes it, a second unpleasant squeaking of metal against metal, painfully loud in the silence.

After waiting for one, two minutes, listening for any sign that she has been heard, Holly turns on the light. Lynch’s dataslate has been haphazardly discarded on the table, alongside notes, trinkets. She resists the urge to tidy up, grabs the dataslate, turns off the light again, uses the dataslate to illuminate the room for her.

Holly sinks down on the carpet, the heavy desk between her and the door, leans her back against it. It is the third time she peeks at the commissar’s private records. Lynch uses a sub-par password and has not changed it once since she sat foot on Eden 39. It had only taken her four mornings of watching him from the corner of her eye to figure it out. On one hand, she wants to tell him that he has to be more careful, guard information better. On the other, he is her only real source of information.

Her fingers slide over the screen, quickly finds the data she is looking for. There are numbers, locations, dates. Successes, failures, casualties. Lynch isn’t wrong.

The 472nd have failed to complete their scouting missions at about an equal rate as any of the other regiments, but their casualties are comparably low. When they fail to complete their mission they retreat, return, can try again. Face little or no punishment if they can provide valuable information. She puts it down to the guardsmen’s experience, survival instinct, and, yes, a commissar who knows how to utilize those skills where they are best suited, understands that retreat can be a temporary setback rather than cowardice.

Perhaps the fact that he is mostly satisfied with shouting plays a part. Removes the fear of facing harsh punishment for returning without the expected results. Encourages the squads to abandon the mission sooner rather than later if it starts to go south. 

With the data in front of her, she takes a moment, thinks back, starts to see a pattern in the shouting sessions. Loss of life and equipment have always been met with more anger than simple failure. Singh mentioned something along those lines some weeks ago.

“I think the commissar wants us back alive just so he can yell at us,” he had laughed, strained but still.

Perhaps the guardsmen have been paying more attention than she has.

Today was Lynch’s fifth execution that she has observed, eighth judging by the numbers. Low, compared to the other regiments. There are too many variables to determine if it is due to lenience or simply his troops having better discipline due to more experience, different tasks. The overall casualty figures suffer from similar variables, but the theme is the same. Aside from the mission in the ravine the 472nd has suffered very few losses, especially considering the enemy that they face. They are the right people, at the right place, at the right time, assigned the right task.

Why change that?

If they just want her on the frontlines, they could send her with any of the other regiments. Lynch has already showed that he is willing to let her assist if need be. It doesn’t add up. Personal disagreements shouldn’t be enough to justify this. It is wasting the resources the Emperor has provided them with if nothing else.

Holly freezes as she sees the casualty numbers for the ravine. She had known it was bad, but not even Lynch’s outrage at the squandering of his guardsmen had truly told her how bad. Nearly 40% of the 472nd sent were lost or badly injured. Almost a quarter of the entire regiment.

Her throat feels tight, her heartbeat more pronounced. She goes over the numbers again. They add up the same. Her friends came back alive, one and all. One stray shot. One notable injury that has healed well.

Holly whispers a quiet prayer of thanks to the Emperor, somehow even more heartfelt than the one she offered up when she learned that they had survived. Knows that if she weren’t who she is, if she were normal, she would no doubt weep tears of gratitude.

Half a regiment sent, divided to cover the flanks. The flanks that got hit hard; she remembers Small told her as much. Judging by the numbers the ravine conflict was a blood bath, for both sides. An imperial victory, but a costly one.

One number stands out though.

Psyker casualties – two. Out of a little more than two dozen. Both are noted as being killed by enemy fire.

That doesn’t add up. By the time she arrived they had already lost a sixth of their psykers, even more since. They are dropping like flies, most of them losing control like the psyker in the interrogation room. How could the ravine conflict have resulted in so few deaths for the group that so far has the highest casualty percentage on site, while the regiments saw losses ranging from a quarter to almost half of their ranks?

There were daemons, Lynch informed her of that. More daemons than expected. She has no way of knowing what kind or if there were more daemonhosts. The notes provided are poor, written by people with only a cursory knowledge of the enemy, can’t name what they see. Vague descriptions, often just lumped together as “daemon” with no further indication of its nature.

And yet. Only two dead out of twenty-six. None lost control of their powers.

Someone else might assume that the psykers sent to the conflict were simply better, more responsible, more resilient, but Holly knows that is not true. One of them seemingly unwillingly became a gate for nurglings to crawl through, while asked to perform a comparably minor task. It is, of course, not unheard of for a psyker to handle a taxing situation successfully, only to break down when meddling with the warp for less strenuous reasons.

And yet. Something is wrong, she is certain of it. Is certain that if she had all the information she would be able to solve this puzzle, but is left with only half of the pieces. Enough to get an idea, but far from seeing the full picture.

Too many psykers are dying on small scale missions, she can see that. As Holly goes over the numbers it repeats, again and again. Psykers are almost ten times as likely to die if paired with a scouting team than if sent to support in a large confrontation. Yet Lynch acted as if Jarvis losing two was an outrage, unusual. It is not the act of a few individual squads failing to protect their psykers. There is something else at play here.

Holly only barely registers the shuffling in the hallway before the door creaks open. It buys her enough time to press the dataslate against her chest, dimming its light, fingers finding the power button.

The ceiling lamp turns on, leaving her with nowhere to take cover other than her current place behind the desk. How to explain this? She has no idea, her mind is a horrifying blank void, all alarms are blaring, no exits available. She listens to the footsteps, heavy, tired, uneven. Familiar.

Leaning to the side ever so slightly she peeks past her shelter, sees who has wandered into the office this late at night. The servitor, damp rag in hand, is wiping down the desk. The nightly cleaning round, out of sight, out of mind.

Holly gets to her feet, startling the servitor with her sudden appearance for a moment before it continues with its tasks. She puts the dataslate back on the desk, turns it a little so it lies as crooked as it did when she picked it up, says nothing as she walks out. She could stay, she knows, but she better not. Better get back to bed. To Jarvis. Get some rest before the morning. Try to push her worries out of her mind for the time being. Let them marinate, take more solid form. 

When she opens the door to her room, she hears him move. The telltale heavy breathing is absent. Awake. She steps inside, closes the door, tip toes back to the bed.

“You up?” he asks, sounds tired, confused. Probably only just woke up.

“Sorry,” she tells him, kisses his forehead in the dark. “I just wanted something to eat. I think it was your talk about bread.”

“Mm,” he accepts the lie readily enough, grumbles a little about how she is cold even as he wraps his arms around her, holds her close. Tells her that she should put on more clothes if she has to get out of bed like this.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I rather you wake me,” Jarvis insists into her neck.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” she assures him. Knows that it won’t change a thing.


	8. Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my ass for the longest time, and I am Done. Thus it is also done.  
> Cue, the field trip that exactly one (1) person wanted, out of a whole regiment.

The day for their venture finally arrives. The transportation ships are ready at dawn. She has had little interaction with the navy, but if Lynch’s laments are anything to go by it is one of the few branches, perhaps the only one, involved in reclaiming Eden 39 that is blameless. Not flawless, but close enough.

Lynch is tense and fidgety during breakfast. Tells her to stay close to him twice – two times more than necessary considering she is meant to be his bodyguard. Nervous? Scared? Certainly unhappy with leaving the base. The mask of calmness slips on early though, before they even step into the antechamber. He would probably give off an air of calm confidence if not for his need to double check that the medics have any and all equipment they could possibly need.

While Lynch is talking to Small and a handful of other medics, Holly comes face to face with Jarvis. In full armor, backpack, weapons, everything. She allows herself a moment, though she has not technically been given leave.

“You are not supposed to lift anything heavy,” she reminds him, unhappy to see that he is disregarding the Hospitaller’s orders. “You are still healing.”

“Only a week or two left,” he says, dismissing her concerns with an ease that rubs her the wrong way. His squabbles with the other guardsmen can’t possibly have improved matters either, she wants to point out. Doesn’t. Knows it is a topic better left as abandoned as most untouchable infants. 

“Your gear alone is too much. You should stay in the base, not-”

He gently takes her face in his gloved hands, leans in, kisses her, angle a little awkward with his helmet on. Stays close after their lips separate, keeps his voice down as he talks. 

“I appreciate the concern, babe,” another kiss. “But if Roth is being sent into battle, I’m going with her. Besides, the rest of the team are carrying some of my shit, so the pack isn’t as heavy as usual.”

“Mm,” she sighs pointedly. Knows there is no arguing, but also wants him to know she disapproves. “I can fit more into my backpack.”

“Thanks, but it’s really not heavy.”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed if…” she trails off as he shakes his head, smiles.

“Not embarrassed. I don’t want you encumbered if you end up within stabbing distance of the enemy. And they’re my squad, she’s my kid, and you’re heading out too. Not a chance that I’m staying behind unless they strap me to a hospital bed.”

“I can have that arranged,” she warns him, prods his flak armored chest with her finger. Hard, reliable, but cheap. Not the best armor available. If it would fit she would demand that he at least don her armor instead.

“Of that I have no doubt.”

“Though I rather have you back in the kitchens,” she adds. “I miss fresh morning bread.”

He smiles, crow’s feet and dimple becoming visible, glances past her, takes a little step back, putting unwanted space between them as his face grows serious again. She knows who is approaching before he finishes straightening up.

“Commissar.”

“Eade,” Lynch nods, looks him up and down. Apparently finds nothing to criticize or praise. “I trust you two will be professional once we step off the ship.”

“Yes, commissar.”

“Yes, sir.”

They reply in unison, readily enough. It seems to be the only reprimand he has for her even though she left him alone with the medics. He is allowed to punish her lightly, she knows that. Not severely – no serious beatings, no starvation, certainly no maiming or execution. The Inquisitor doesn’t want a repeat of her fourth mission when her presence had brought out the worst in already unpleasant people. Her supervisor had eventually been forced to intervene. Compromised the mission. But Holly hadn’t died in a cramped cell because the people around her had decided they didn’t really need her alive. That the corpse would serve them better. Could be dismembered, divided among them, that she could still protect them in pieces. They had cut off part of her right ear to test the theory.

Holly knows the Inquisitor hid behind a different title when he approved her posting, but even so she is certain that Lynch is aware that his authority over her is limited. Still. He is allowed to yell at her to his heart’s content. She appreciates that he doesn’t.

“Good, good. I am going to need Holly for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

“Commissar,” Jarvis nods, tone perhaps a bit short. Reaches out, gives her hand a quick squeeze before walking away.

Lynch heads off in a different direction. Holly follows, waits for orders, a sign of what he expects of her, anything. They make a few stops with other guardsmen, Lynch still focusing his attention on the medics. Eventually they reach the small group of navy personnel, huddled together out of the wind in the shadow of an aircraft. Lynch greets them with a casual familiarity. She recognizes two of them as they have paid a social visit or two in their private quarters. Still, they all seem pleased to see the commissar, be it genuine or polite deception.

“I’m sure you remember Bleak,” Lynch gestures to her, talks to a man in exemplary polished leather boots. He nods, smiles, teeth seeming impossibly white against his dark skin. The skin around his eyes doesn’t move. A polite smile, not genuine. She can’t blame him; Lynch has brought her too close to them. While they have escaped the cold wind, she has brought a different unpleasant cold with her.

“Difficult to forget, and,” he goes on pointedly, “we have seen the video.”

“Ah, it was quite a show, wasn’t it?” Lynch says, sounds pleased, like a parent whose child has just mastered a mildly complicated skill.

“I don’t suppose you could send for a few more,” he chuckles, glances at her, turns his attention back to the commissar.

“I’m afraid that she is a rare gem,” he smiles politely, turns to Holly. An offer to join into the conversation? Oh. She musters up a soft smile.

“Unfortunately, we are indeed very rare, and it is exceedingly unlikely that you will see more than one of us deployed at the same location,” she tells them, speaks gently, with more inflection than she would prefer. Takes care not to meet anyone’s eyes for more than one, two seconds. 

“Ah, shame, there goes your idea of an anti-daemon strike force, Fan,” he says to his companion.

“I still think it would be a good idea,” the other man says, the buttons on his uniform twinkling in the faint morning sunlight.

She wants to point out that the notion is not meritless, just that it is exceedingly unlikely they will ever see it. Has heard of operations that required multiple untouchables. Ugly situations. Nightmarish. Knows better than to mention those, remind them that for all the daemonic activity on Eden 39, it is still fairly mild. Manageable for the Imperial Guard, for the most part. At least for now.

Lynch chats with them for a while, shares a few laughs while she waits quietly by his side. Eventually the time comes to begin to board, they excuse themselves, step into one of the ships which smells faintly of burned rubber, strap in.

Region 27G of Eden 39 is by no means a smooth plain to traverse. It is a series of hills and sudden drops into waterfilled crevasses. There is no record of a mine located here, but the water has eaten away at the rock, slow and steady, leaving plenty of caves to shelter in. The navy and more than one scouting team have ensured that they are not going in blind. Enough activity has been recorded for them to expect resistance, yet any conflict here will have to take place at a small scale. The area is too cramped, nature itself limiting their options, negating their advantage in numbers. 

The cold has seemingly come to stay and there is more ice and snow than anyone cares for. Holly stays close to Lynch, who is doing an admirable job of appearing unaffected by the weather. His nose and cheeks betray him, having turned red, but his face suggests indifference.

It is the Vostroyan guardswomen and the ten drop troopers who are summoned as they begin to examine how to best reach the most promising caves. Thirty-nine women and eight men total, all serious and wearing thick winter coats over their armor. As the discussion of how to best descend and explore what is no doubt freezing waterfilled caverns drags on, Holly excuses herself. Insinuates that she needs to use the make-shift facilities. It is the only time Lynch allows her to leave his sight. It is only the third day, but it is beginning to grate on her nerves. The fact that they sleep in the same tent and she can’t prod him during the night to inform him that he is snoring no doubt plays a part. She misses Jarvis, too. Jarvis who she can and has prodded the odd night when he’s started to snore in her ear.

She has had time to think though, doesn’t like what answers her mind comes up with. Doesn’t care for the questions either. Instead of using the holes generously described as latrines she searches for familiar faces. Finds Singh chatting with a balding guardsman she doesn’t recognize.

“May I have a word?” she asks softly, her aura demanding his attention more than her words.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, turns to the other man, says a quick sentence or two before walking over to her. She gestures for him to walk with her towards the edge of the camp. “Everything good?”

“Everything is fine,” she answers. Awkwardly engages in the small talk Singh insists on until they have some space, away from prying ears. “I was wondering…” Holly hesitates, knows this is going to be an unpleasant topic to revisit, but she needs to know. “The two psykers that you travelled with before me.”

“Yeah?”

“Jarvis was the one who shot them? Both of them?” she asks, yet knows the answer. Knows it in her heart. Has never asked him.

“Well, yes,” Singh says, looks at her, looks away, back at the busy camp. “What of it?”

“Did they really lose control?”

“Of course,” he says, looks her in the eyes as he does so. Sounds certain, convinced. As if he can’t imagine why she would doubt that. And yet. “What other reason could there be?”

“Because he was scared.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Dismissive. Quite unlike the Singh she knows.

“There were no signs of mutation on the bodies,” she points out, attempting a different angle. Admittedly they had been dead for a very long time and she didn’t get a chance to really examine them.

“Sometimes psykers go bad without their bodies changing.”

Again, that certainty. She smiles softly, meets his eyes.

“Singh,” she says gently, attempts to convince him to come clean with a hint of deceit. “I’m an untouchable. I have spent all my adult life hunting psykers and daemons. I think I know what a psyker that loses control of their powers look like.”

He smiles, shrugs, seems unconcerned.

“One of the ones we dealt with four years ago could have walked through a crowd without anyone noticing that there was something wrong with her,” he says. “Still made my little sister stab me.”

Holly doesn’t have a good answer to that. Doesn’t know enough details to have been able to mentally prepare herself for the conversation veering into that territory. Knows that she can’t continue to press the issue. Wishes she could have asked someone, had learned more about the incident, but the only people who would be able to provide her with answers loathe to revisit it.

“I didn’t know that,” she tells him, opting for honesty.

“Yeah well,” he grimaces, sniffs, reaches up to rub his nose. “I had to crawl two stories while holding my guts in to get to the turret controls. Everyone still died screaming, there or in that rundown hospital. I think I remember what those psykers looked like.”

They look at each other in silence for a while.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says, wishing that she knew how to handle this sort of thing. “I didn’t mean to remind you of that.”

“I know,” Singh lets out a deep sigh, his voice a little unsteady. “It’s alright. Why does it matter?”

Holly hesitates, not sure if she should tell him. Supposes he deserves to know, and yet. Isn’t sure she really knows him. Is fairly certain that he lied straight to her face just a moment ago.

“I’m just concerned,” she finally says. “I think… I think something is wrong with the psykers here. Or… no, not the psykers, but it affects them. I thought perhaps it had affected the two that had been assigned to your squad, but then I know Jarvis and…” she trails off, lets out a deep sigh of her own to show her frustration with the situation, her resignation.

“Yeah,” Singh says quietly. Doesn’t look at her. “I… stand by that Eade wasn’t to blame.”

But he was, she knows. She has a duty to protect the psykers, so long as they don’t stray from the Emperor’s light. Should be upset with Jarvis, with Singh for protecting him, but she finds herself understanding instead. Nothing about the situation is right.

They look at each other, the silence dragging on. Not knowing how to turn this around, how to ask her questions now, she nods, turns to leave, intends to return to Lynch. Stops when she hears Singh speak.

“What’s your theory?”

She supposes she has a theory of a sort. Vague and uncertain.

“Calling it that is too generous a description,” she replies, turns to face him again.

“But you are investigating. You wouldn’t be asking questions like that otherwise. You would ask Eade too, if you didn’t think it would upset him.”

The tables have turned. She doesn’t much care for it.

“It is an unusual situation. That is all I know for certain.”

That and that Jarvis likely killed those psykers relatively unprovoked. Fear making him jumpy, prone to seeing danger where there is none. Even without a psyker present he is still jumpy in open spaces. Still watching for danger that never comes. Yet she can’t help but to suspect that it might have saved their lives. Too many psykers are dying on scouting missions, missions which bring them to the mines. Many of them take at least part of their squad along with them. The first psyker assigned to the 116th got into the mine. Not deep, but still.

“Are you…” Singh seems to be uncertain what words to use. “You’re not going to get Eade in trouble, are you?”

“No,” she smiles, hopes it will help sooth his worries. The fear is likely born from learning of her telling Lynch of the bearded guard leaving his post after she told him to do so. It has not made her popular, but then she never was. “I’m not asking on behalf of Lynch. I’m asking for me.”

That seems to help, he nods, glances back at the camp again, looks back to her, steps a bit closer.

“He wouldn’t just shoot them because they are what they are, ok?” he tells her, keeps his voice down. She knows that too. Would feel very differently about him if she believed otherwise. “It was just… the first one started complaining about a headache and got all weird and twitchy. It took no time at all after Jarvis shot him before people and _things_ started welling out of the lower levels and we had to flee. It might have been that they heard the shot, but there were so many so quickly that… it was almost as if they were waiting for us, already knew we were there. They _were_ waiting for us when we returned the second time. As if they knew when we’d come back. Which,” he scrunches up his face, scratches his thick black hair. “I suppose they did, didn’t they? Distance to base, insider knowledge of what vehicles we use, the terrain. Wouldn’t be hard to estimate how long it would take us to get back, report, and return.”

“You are probably right. Wechsler said the place was crawling with daemons when you returned?”

“Yeah, and the woods,” he grimaces, looks as if he has tasted something foul, turns his gaze up towards the cloudy sky. “They were absolutely waiting for us.”

“A show of force,” Holly agrees. Protecting something important. The altar, probably, the tome. She has seen no mentions of anything like it elsewhere in Lynch’s records.

“Exactly. The navy stepped in and dealt with the worst of it alongside some ground troops. That might have been why we didn’t have a welcoming party when we went there the third time, with you.”

The scorched woods splattered with ichor. She remembers. And yet.

“I think there was a welcoming party,” she tells him, watches his eyebrows move up. Dark brown eyes move ever so slightly back and forth to look her in the eyes. “The creature that attacked Roth would likely have been able to kill all of you if I hadn’t been there.”

“That bad?”

“That bad,” she nods.

“So, they invited us in?”

“Mm,” she watches him as he processes the information, evidently doesn’t like it. Then it is like a switch flips in his head and he suddenly grins at her. 

“I guess I’ll never give Eade shit for thinking with his dick again,” he laughs, reaches out, gives her a gentle jab with his elbow. Holly smiles, not for the words, but for the touch. As if she was anyone else. 

By the time she returns to Lynch snow has begun to fall again. People are descending down the steep cliffs, harnessed to ropes secured to jagged rocks. Three Vostroyan guardswomen and one drop trooper make their way down the rockface, the latter with surprising ease. Holly supposes that down is easier than up.

“I should go with them,” she tells Lynch quietly as she takes her place by his side.

“They can handle it,” he assures her, but she isn’t sure if he is being honest or using the quartet as bait.

“If there are daemons,” she starts, but he shakes his head ever so slightly. Holly hesitates, presses on. “They are mine too.”

That seems to catch his attention.

“Yours?”

“These guardsmen. All of them. They are yours, but they are mine too,” she tells him, looks him in the eyes as she does so. She has a duty to the guardsmen, now that she is here. The Emperor made her this way for a reason.

He watches her for a moment, smiles. It is different from Jarvis’ smiles, or even Singh’s. Reminds her of her mother when she relented and let Holly have a few pieces of hard sweets because she had been well-behaved.

Once the four below confirm that one of the caves continue further than they can see, that the water is not very deep, Lynch descends the slope himself, together with her and two Vostroyan medics, by all appearances haphazardly chosen from the group. The harness digs into her thighs but Holly hardly notices, too giddy with the excitement of _finally_ being allowed to do something.

The water splashes as they land, splattering her pants. It almost reaches up to her calves, not so bad for Lynch and her with their high boots, more of an issue for the guardsmen.

“Commissar,” one of the guardswomen say. Narrow-faced, gaunt, hooded dark eyes, a series of shallow uneven scars scattered across her face like stars in the night sky. Seems pleased to see them there, the corner of her lips twitching a little upwards.

“Orlova, what are we looking at?” he asks, sounds casually confident. As if descending was his idea.

“Long cavern, commissar,” she informs him as three strobelights help illuminate the path ahead. Holly fishes out her own, waits to turn it on. May as well save the battery for a while. “Seems naturally formed. No sign of hostiles.”

“I saw holes in the rock on the way down,” another woman speaks up, one of the medics. She is short, on the plump side, has a ruddy complexion, green eyes, wisps of brown hair frame her round face. Descended the wall slower than they did. “Evenly spaced. Cavern might be natural, but those holes were not. Someone has been climbing this route before us.”

“Well spotted,” Lynch smiles at her. The woman seems to grow a little taller for it.

Another quartet join them as they begin to explore the cave entrance. There is no sign of the water having ever been much higher than it is now, Holly notes, no risk of the cavern flooding. The ground inside is covered in loose rocks, pebbles. Resembles unusually large and uneven gravel.

Holly barely has time to step inside the cavern itself, out of direct sunlight, before she hears a woman’s voice.

“Stop!” Urgent. Mildly panicked. The woman in question, the gaunt one, doesn’t move, holds her arm out wide. “Everyone stop! I stepped on something.”

There is an awkward shuffle, before the round-faced woman steps forward cautiously, investigates. Confirms that it’s a frag mine. Explosion experts are sent for, four descend in short order. One is a woman with pretty big eyes, one bluer than the sky has ever been over Eden 39, the other a milky white. Big lips, only a large scar where her nose once was, trailing over her blind eye. Holly recognizes her. It’s hard not to. Wechsler also arrives, together with two men that look so similar that Holly would be surprised if they weren’t brothers.

Lynch backtracks along with the rest, steps to the side of the cave opening, effectively taking cover should the mine go off while the urgently summon explosives team set to work. Holly waits next to him, tense, worried. They are all hers to protect, yes, but Wechsler is her friend. One of the few friends she has ever had. She doesn’t want to lose her.

The minutes creep by, Lynch talks to someone above over his micro-bead. Sounds calm, unconcerned, explains the situation. When there is no explosion and five people return out to join the rest, he seems to perk up, turns his attention back to the people around him. Holly’s feet are cold, standing in the water, but the relief of seeing Wechsler wander up to her makes her forget all about that. Meets the other woman’s grin with a smile of her own.

“It’s been disarmed, commissar,” one of the brothers says, reaches up to scratch the back of his neck just underneath the helmet. “But we saw at least three more further in, spread out.”

“It’s a trap,” the other brother adds, in case anyone had mistakenly assumed it was a coincidence.

“Mhm,” Lynch nods, glances at the gaunt woman. She looks a little paler than before going into the cave, but unharmed. “There is no point risking anyone for what might be nothing.” Turns his attention upwards, to the people listening in on the continued call. “Get me some servoskulls and recording equipment.”

More people join them, the water soon soaking too many guardsmen’s shoes for comfort. They are too many people in a space with no viable quick exit. If they didn’t have a large number of their own guarding the top, Holly would be very nervous. It feels like it should be an ambush. Thinking back to her conversation with Singh, perhaps it was intended to be, for a scouting team.

Half a dozen servoskulls are flown down quickly, looked over, fiddled with. Most are deemed fit for the task at hand. A battered one gets a stablight taped to it, then declared equally capable as the rest.

They are sent flying inside, inspecting the ground, the walls. The battered one bobs gently as it goes, flies somewhat slower, struggles a little under the extra load. Deeper into the hollow are paths, crooked, uneven, frequently narrow. Some are wide enough for a man, others for a small group. One is so narrow that the servoskull soon almost gets stuck, struggles to return to the rest, none the wiser as to what lies further in. A dead end, probably, it is declared. Unreachable at this point, at any rate, no sign of any lurking danger.

It is a slow process, waiting for the servoskulls to explore both ground and surroundings, searching for any sign of danger, any reason to send guardsmen in to take a closer look.

The first interesting discovery that the servoskulls make is a waste pile in a pit. Garbage, junk, fecal matter, all floating in a no doubt reeking pool of cold water. After further investigation there is an opening in the cave wall some six or seven meters above. Exploring further shows trails of dried filth running down the wall, a worn stone floor that has seen frequent use, a door that fails to open even when a servoskull grips the handle with its teeth.

While Lynch insists that no one would go through the effort of positively littering the path into the cave system with mines to protect refuse, Holly isn’t so sure. There might be more to the pit than waste, or it might just be an ambush spot, intended to lure in a team, force them into the minefield. 

The next find, along a different path, is a pile of crates stamped with the aquila, unevenly stacked. Three out of the eight wooden boxes have been cracked open. A little nudging of the lids reveals rations, though there are signs of mold.

The third discovery is a large round door, tall and wide enough to let a fully armed and armored Astartes through with ease. After some discussion it is agreed that it appears to be designed to roll into the rockface when opened, with no visible way to open it from their side.

“If it rolls into the wall, then there is a hollow space within the wall,” the noseless woman says. “We don’t bother with the door. We break down the wall next to it.”

Holly listens half-heartedly as the conversation quickly turn to how to get to the door to begin with. It quickly becomes an issue of how many explosions they should set off to clear the path, while Lynch frowns ever so slightly at the enthusiasm some of the guardsmen display at the suggestion.

“Back at the farm, we piled up a row of leaves, real long, set it on fire,” Wechsler tells them, gesturing with her hands. “Blew one end to the other in one go. If-”

“If you mean we should set off the nearest mines in the hopes that the lot of them go off,” one of the brothers interrupts. He is missing two fingers on his right hand, Holly notes. “Then I would like to point out that it is likely to set off a cave-in.”

“Tsh,” Wechsler rolls her eyes, shifts her weight over to her other leg. “That’s not a guarantee.”

“Maybe not,” the noseless woman says, looking up towards the top of the ridge of the crevasse. “But see the other side there? The rock all cracked? That looks like it could fall just right and block the entrance. Large enough explosion over here might do it.”

“Send in a servitor,” the other brother shrugs. “It will either pave a safe path, or set off one explosion at a time.”

Wechsler grimaces but doesn’t argue. Holly wishes that she would. Wishes that she would find it in herself to object.

“It is better than a guardsman going in,” Lynch agrees, sealing the deal.

 _Is it?_ she wants to ask him. Doesn’t. Doesn’t look when a servitor brought along to carry equipment is lowered down to them, sent inside. Closes her eyes when the first explosion goes off. Tries to distance herself, away from the detonations, the wheezing, the sound of someone who was once a man crawling forward, flesh leg shattered.

She is brought back to reality abruptly, an elbow nudging her side.

“That little stunt on the farm?” Wechsler leans against the cliff wall next to Holly. “Got the worst scolding of my life from my parents after that. Mainly because some sparks flew into uncle Jarek’s cabbage field and half of it went up in flames. Uncle Jarek wouldn’t hear anything about crispy cabbage being a delicacy either,” she grins, as if she can’t hear the bang in the cave just around the corner. “I spent almost a full month repairing that damned field and had to help grow the disgusting things the following year.”

She keeps going for another two explosions, as if she hasn’t got a care in the world, as if she can’t tell that everyone else is quiet, waiting, on edge. The guardswoman tells Holly about her two little brothers, of pudgy cheeks, scraped knees, their reoccurring nightmares about an old witch that supposedly lived in the house at a steep hill at the edge of the village.

“Of course, no one lived in that house for more than a year,” she goes on. “There was always something that-”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Wechsler pauses, leans forward past Holly to look at the drop trooper.

“No,” she tells him. “I talk in my sleep too, so go fuck yourself.” Turns back to Holly, demonstratively rolls her eyes. “Thinks he’s the first one to tell me I let my mouth run.”

Holly sees the man look in Lynch’s direction, evidently hoping that the relentless flood of words is annoying him too. If he knew Lynch he wouldn’t bother. There is precious little sympathy to be found in the commissar who privately could talk even Wechsler’s ear off, who acts as if he hasn’t noticed a thing despite only having Holly between him and the guardswoman.

“You know, Bleak, I think you’d look really pretty with a braid or something along those lines,” Wechsler smiles at her, evidently taking Lynch’s lack of reaction as a go ahead for her to continue talking about anything that passes through her head. “The bun is good, mind you, shows off your cheekbones. But maybe something…” she gestures vaguely around Holly’s face. “Something that lets your hair do that pretty soft curve that, have you seen Alina Medvedica? She’s got this side-parting that falls real nice when she lets her hair down.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Holly confesses.

“Ah, I’ll introduce you,” she promises. “She’s got such good hair. I’d be jealous even if I could grow my hair out without it becoming a frizzy gravity defying mess at the slightest hint of humidity.”

Lynch claps his hands, silencing Wechsler, attracting everyone’s attention. It has been a little while since Holly heard any groaning, the scraping of metal upon stone.

“We’re not getting more out of it than this,” he declares, looks into the cave. “Orlova, you’ve got your wits about you. See how far it got.”

“Yes, commissar,” the gaunt woman says readily enough, draws her stablight, steps into the cavern once more.

“If it’s still alive, put it out of its misery,” he adds. “It won’t be worth the effort to get it out of here.”

They wait in silence as the guardswoman walks inside, cautiously but obediently. A single shot rings out. The gaunt woman returns, informs them that there is a safe path past the gravel, that the ground is mostly clear further into the cavern, all solid rock which leaves very few places to hide any more mines.

“Holly,” Lynch says. “I think it might be time for you to,” there is the briefest of pauses as he searches for a suitable word, evidently fails, “do your thing.”

As vague as his instructions are, there are no enemies present, which leaves precious little room for misunderstandings. 

“Yes, sir,” she says, lets go of her aura, allows it to unfurl, a wave of cold and discomfort rolling over Lynch and the guardsmen. She hears Wechsler hiss as it hits her, standing right next to her. Still, the guardswoman speaks up quickly, tone cheerful.

“You know, I’ve figured out what that aura of yours feels like. It’s like when you’re a kid wearing a nice winter coat and you’re all cozy and warm and minding your own business, right? And then someone, and I’m not naming any names but he’s your boyfriend, decides to push you down and shove a huge pile of snow down your back.”

There are a few chuckles even as people eye Holly nervously.

A few more guardsmen descend to join up with them as they enter the cave, Lynch walking in first, Holly at his heels. The rest follow. It is not difficult to tell the trail which is safe from the area which may still hide danger. The pebbles have been pushed around, scattered. There are bits of metal and bone, a trail of blood. They climb the mild incline, step over the mangled body of the servitor, proceed further into the tunnels, servoskulls floating ahead of them, lighting the way, recording.

She should probably find the sheer amount of explosives their small team is lugging around alarming, yet she has heard Small voice his concerns that Wechsler’s backpack alone could take them all out if it was set off.

“And it will be a quick, practically painless death. What more can we hope for?” she had countered unabashed. Jarvis’ grumbling about retirement had made the jovial mood plummet like a drop trooper failing to remember his training on his first mission.

The massive round door remains sealed. The wall crumbles and the roof doesn’t cave in. Once the dust settles the servoskulls are sent forward again. They move on at a slower pace, Lynch takes the lead, one eye at the recording of what is up ahead.

A warehouse of a sort awaits them. A hallway that leads to a series of rooms that show signs of habitation. Quickly abandoned trinkets. A glimpse of someone running away on short legs. The servoskull follows as if curious, enters a larger room with people. Shots are fired and the servoskull falls, the recording flickers, dies.

“Those are children, sir,” she says quietly, watching the dataslate over Lynch’s shoulder.

“They are armed mutants,” he replies. Calm, cool, unconcerned. Doesn’t look at her when he speaks. The mask is still on. “Kartal did mention that he thought there were too few children among the natives for a planet so barren of entertainment.”

They are both right, of course. The room holds a large number of children. It holds an equal number of mutants. Some appear to be armed with stolen weapons. To Lynch’s credit he offers them one chance to surrender as they wait in the hallway, backs pressed against the wall. His voice carries, there is no mistaking the offer.

The response is a frag grenade. Lynch flinches backwards, into Holly, while one of the Vostroyan women rushes forward. He moves faster than the guardswoman, grabs her by the flak armor, holds her back.

“It’s not activated!” he informs them, sounds surprisingly calm.

Armed children with no skill, understanding, experience. Yet they have made their intent known, rendering tears useless. The servoskulls are sent in, the five remaining ones all at once, instructed to move quickly and spread out. There are shrieks, a smattering of las fire. Lynch orders the men to move, goes first. Holly isn’t sure who fires the first shot, only knows that she never draws her weapon. Grows still, quiet, a breathing corpse.

The light of the hail of las fire is almost blinding. It starts with one, eight, two dozen shots. Becomes a thunderous roar around her.

Suffer not the mutant, the heretic, the xeno to live.

The las fire dies down. It takes a moment for her eyes to adapt to the dim light once more. Doesn’t need to see the room to know. Can smell the blood. Hear the whimpering, the shrill screams. 

Suffer not the mutant, the heretic…

“Give the survivors the Emperor’s Peace,” Lynch says, loud and clear. Guardsmen move past her. She wants to think there is hesitation in the rhythm of their boots against the ground. And yet they advance, comply. 

Suffer not the mutant…

Silence finally falls. The bodies are so small. The largest among them are Roth’s size, dwindling from there. One is so small it is not even an infant, stunted in growth by its mutations, yet born, alive, alive no longer.

Lynch strides forwards, steps over bodies, walks straight through the blood as if he can’t tell it is there. She follows, alive. Her presence suffered. 

Their current sleeping quarters, a tent, is cramped. Their cots are only two meters apart, far enough to be reasonably proper, too far for Holly to nudge Lynch in his sleep and pretend she hasn’t. The tent keeps some of the cold out, at least. Does a better job at it than the barracks. Lynch wastes little time, orders the other guards to leave them be. Waits until the tent has closed before throwing his hat at his cot. Plenty of force behind the throw, but between the light weight of the hat and the bedding it only bounces to the foot of the cot. Grows still. An unsatisfactory display of his frustrations, no doubt.

“If Zima knew there were only children here, I will kill her myself,” he hisses through clenched teeth as he sinks down on her cot. Runs his fingers across his face, his scalp. Leans forward, hunched over, looking at his boots. Perhaps some trace of blood can be found on them, for the attentive eye.

Holly stands by awkwardly, not really sure what to do. There are no chairs. She can’t sit on Lynch’s cot uninvited. That would be inappropriate.

“That is going to fuck with their heads, especially the rookies, even if they were mutants,” he grumbles. Keeps his voice down, doesn’t want the guards outside to overhear him. A private conversation, words shared in confidence.

It isn’t the first time she has seen dead children, of course, yet still feels a strange rawness over the day’s events. Is going to have to smother that, push it out of her mind before it festers. She has killed children, but none so young as the small ones today, not directly at least. Indirectly, yes. Millions have paid with their lives for her failure. She can still remember the dreadful silence that fell over the room when the Inquisitor realized that he couldn’t allow them anymore time to try to salvage the city that once had born him. The corruption having taken root, spread too far. Not enough leads to do more than flail at leaves while the tree kept growing.

It was the only time she ever saw the Inquisitor hesitate before giving an order. The words still passed his lips. Firm, clear, damning.

Did it eat away at him too, or was he better equipped to emotionally distance himself from the atrocity deemed necessary? Holly can’t say. The Inquisitor is polite with her. Cares about her safety because she is valuable. Tolerates the shortcomings born out of her condition. He does not confide in her, the way Lynch does.

She shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, begins to take a step towards his cot to sit facing him, changes her mind. Inappropriate. Finally walks forward, sits down on her own cot, next to Lynch. It is her bed. She can’t be faulted for sitting on her own bed. 

He doesn’t object. Doesn’t reprimand her. Doesn’t move away.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Lynch says instead. Sounds like he means it. Blue eyes focused on his hands, seems to see something that is not there.

Lynch is not her friend like Wechsler is. Like Roth or Singh. Not even like Coleman or Small. But he is not a cold shell of a superior like the Inquisitor either. He has been kind to her. Is perhaps a friend of a different sort.

“There were reports of activities in the region, deliveries, people on the ground,” he goes on. “We all thought the secret base would house the leadership, not…”

He grows quiet again.

Holly takes a slow breath, raises her right hand, gently puts it against his back. When he doesn’t recoil, she begins to stroke his back, slow circles, as she does for Jarvis when his nightmares leave him distressed. Her mother did it for her too when she was a child. Holly had to verbalize that she was upset, of course, but her mother had comforted her best she could when told.

Lynch says nothing, turns his head to look at her. His eyebrows are not in their neutral position. A hint of a frown and yet not. Eyes trying to read her face, as if her expression is genuine. Uncertainty? Holly smiles for him, the soft smile that he likes, tilts her head a little to the side. Makes sure her feet and knees are close together, her left hand in her lap, takes up as little space as possible. Blinks once, twice.

His hands drop to his lap. For a brief moment he looks as if he is about to say something.

Lynch moves quicker than she expected, the sharp sound of his hands simultaneously slapping his own thighs sudden, unpleasant. He gets to his feet, smiles at her quickly before turning away, stepping over to his own cot. Reaches for his discarded hat.

“I’m sorry for burdening you, Holly,” he says, runs one hand through his hair to get it into some semblance of order again. “Don’t worry, people who can’t handle minor setbacks don’t become commissars.”

Oh. She misread the situation again. Overstepped. Shouldn’t have tried to soothe him. Made him uncomfortable, made him feel weak, vulnerable? Should she apologize? Or would acknowledging it make the situation worse?

“Do you want to say goodnight to your guardsman before we call it a day?”

“I thought you wanted me to stay close to you?” Holly asks, confused.

“Ah, yes, well, I’m sure you’ll come right back.”

She looks at him, hesitates. Has to admit to herself that she is not equipped to handle this. Smiles instead, gets up from her cot. Tugs at her sleeve, her feet too close together for good balance, weight shifted onto her left foot.

“I will do that then, sir,” she agrees.

He smiles at her, the only confirmation that she has agreed to his suggestion. Lips pressed together, a stiffness to it that she can’t explain. Holly returns the smile dutifully, turns, walks out of the tent again. Wants to ask what she did wrong, knows that she can’t.


	9. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are all sex scenes in this story going to be 1k+? Yes. Yes they are. This is the story where I get over the awkwardness of writing them – welcome to my writing therapy.

They return to base emptyhanded weeks later. The mood among the guardsmen is, as Lynch predicted, poor. Even though most never entered the only cave system where there was anything worth inspecting word has gotten around. It is a little bit past midday when they land, tired, hungry, filthy. Lynch is expected in the meeting room, the colonel requesting an update, so they waste no time.

The double doors close with her on one side, Lynch on the other. The hours drag on as command combs through what little information they could bring back inside the meeting room. Holly does the same in the hallway outside, stomach growling.

What they found paints a cheerless picture. Four dozen children or thereabout, six noticeably pregnant women, one man with a heavily curved back and twisted leg. The weak and vulnerable. All dead now. The caches were stolen food, medicine, weapons, blankets. Mostly food. The traitorous guardswoman may have been stealing provisions because she had learned children were starving, not because she had thrown her lot in with Chaos.

And yet. The locals were extracted. Those that remained were officially classified as the enemy months ago. The guardswoman knew that. Providing the enemy with food carries with it the punishment of death by starvation, according to Jarvis. The guardswoman knew that too.

And yet. The locals that remain seem to be in possession of visible mutations almost one and all. This could give them reason to fear that extraction might not be their salvation. The condemnation of all that remain would then brand even the innocent merely trying to survive as the enemy.

And yet. When they were given a second chance, they responded with throwing a frag grenade. The act of a single individual, perhaps, but none in the room voiced a willingness to accept the generous offer. But then again, they were children, probably told that the guardsmen would only harm them. 

No guardsman had shown them how to use the grenade though. To Holly, that suggests the use of drop-points rather than interactions. Understandable, considering the distance to region 27G. There might be underground tunnels, a system that connects some of the mines to allow the unseen transportation of goods. There was recorded activity on the surface, so it is unlikely that they missed such a tunnel during their search of the cave system. Between the river and the terrain, few ground vehicles could have made it from camp to 27G on its own. Part of the way, yes, a tunnel system after that, possibly. That, or they should take a closer look at the navy.

The thought unsettles her. If the navy is compromised, that can leave them isolated, left to starve and freeze to death, regardless of any further daemonic activity. If confronted, they might attack the base from a comfortable distance. There is barely any anti-air equipment on Eden 39 that she is aware of. The known enemy is underground for the most part, occasionally crawling along the ground. There is no need for it.

Perhaps she is jumping to conclusions. Suspicion and paranoia are the illegitimate children of Ordo Hereticus, according to the Inquisitor. Holly has seen no evidence that the navy has been anything but exemplary. Lynch is pleased with them. They have accepted the no doubt subpar local transportation aircrafts and made do.

Who oversees the usage of the aircrafts? The navy or the guard? Who logs the coming and goings of them? Would Lynch be able to get access to those records? If she asked him, would he tell her?

As she stands and watches the polished double doors she wishes, not for the first time, that she could just inform them of her affiliations. Demand the information she wants. Act the Interrogator, rather than the trusted Acolyte. Take an active role in uprooting the corruption that evidently has made its way into the local Imperial Guard.

Untouchables don’t become Interrogators, certainly not Inquisitors in their own right. She knows that. Who can trust an untouchable with such power? And at any rate, she lacks the necessary social skills, struggles to read expressions, interpret tones. It would be a poor Interrogator who needed to consult their retinue to understand if their target were being disingenuous. If a hand on someone’s back was inappropriate.

Holly shifts her weight from one foot to the other, making the guardsman to her left flinch. Ignores him, settles back to the usual evenly balanced position. Wishes for evening to fall upon them sooner rather than later.

The hours drag on. Eventually she reaches for her micro-bead, informs Jarvis that she will be late, that perhaps it is better if he sleeps in the barracks tonight. He sounds disappointed but agrees. She is disappointed too.

By the time Lynch exits the meeting room evening has arrived, outstayed its welcome, and departed. All four commissars gathered look a little tired, Lynch more so than the rest, the six out of the usual seven officers present appear to be more than ready to abandon consciousness in favor of sleep. Holly is starving, aching, weary. Steps forward, takes her place two steps behind Lynch as they head out.

The chill of the night air and the bite of the sleet is unpleasant yet almost welcome. With them they carry the promise of a warm bed in a room far away from Lynch’s snoring. He wastes no time, makes a beeline towards their living quarters.

“Sorry it took so long,” he yawns. “Colonel Oswick tried to wrap it up three times but I swear, Zima dragged it out to spite me. Food is being prepared, but I understand if you rather go to sleep.”

“I could eat,” Holly says, underselling the gnawing ache in her stomach. She doesn’t complain.

“Good, good,” Lynch nods. Refrains from more comments, too tired or the information too sensitive to talk about in the open. They walk in silence until they reach the front door, push it open, greet the guards. A man and a woman tonight. They stand too close to each other, Holly notes with some degree of irritation. It would be easy to slit the throat of one and leap upon the other before they had a chance to raise the alarm. Yet she is tired, doesn’t comment.

They hang up their coats, step into the antechamber. The light flickers on, warm, yellow, a relief. The light in the common room beyond is paler, turns on instantly, bathes the room in a cool glow.

Wrong. Something is wrong.

She reaches out, grabs Lynch’s upper arm, yanks him back. He lets out a small surprised yelp as he stumbles backwards into her. Holly’s eyes scan the room, tries to take in the scene, to pinpoint what is wrong.

“What?” he looks at her, looks at the room.

It takes her a moment to see what it is she reacted to, the sense of wrongness hitting her before she realizes what caused it. There is no movement, nothing has been added or removed, there is no one else there. The coffee table by the couch is a little crooked, the dent it has worked into the pale blue carpet visible next to one of its legs.

Holly plants a hand firmly on Lynch’s chest, pushes him backwards, out of the room. As they retreat to the antechamber, she looks for discrepancies. There is a small spot on the inside of the glass at the center of the ceiling lamp, just by the decorative brass cap that holds it in place. Almost invisible, could be mistaken for a speck of dirt.

Lynch’s eyes follow hers, he looks confused, then his frown inverses, eyebrows go up, his hand go for his bolt pistol. Eyes turn towards the door to the entrance hallway, his mind no doubt focused on the guards, a potential ambush.

“Explosives?” he asks her under his breath. Holly shrugs, not certain, but certainly not ready to reject the notion.

“Take cover,” she tells him. “I’ll investigate inside.”

“I should-”

“Cover my back,” she interrupts. It is evident that he is not entirely satisfied with being ordered about, yet seems to remember that she is supposed to be his bodyguard, relents.

Holly returns to the common room cautiously, eyes the room with newfound suspicion. Everything seems to be in order, everything is in the right place, except for the coffee table. Just a little crooked. They have been gone for three weeks, no one else should have been in here, should have disturbed the furniture. The servitor is precise. Leaves Lynch’s items where he has left them if they are on his desk, tidies up the floors, clears all other tables. Ensures that everything is immaculate in the morning.

Twenty days, nineteen nights.

She crosses the floor foot by foot, searching for any sign of danger, of change. Nineteen nights of cleaning done in an empty building. Nineteen nights of putting things in order. Except the table is crooked. There is a suspicious spot in a lamp in the antechamber. A few bits of dried mud on the common room floor.

Two alternatives present themselves to her.

Either someone entered the building today. The weather has been wet so they would have to take the time to wipe off their boots thoroughly but not thoroughly enough. Time consuming and done in plain view by the entrance. The floors are cold and judging by the slight chill in the air the heating has been off in their absence. Yet the mud crumbles between her fingertips, allowed time to dry up. Whoever entered must have done so around the time they returned to base or earlier. Not impossible, but unlikely. 

Or.

Holly carefully opens the door to the little room where the servitor stays during the day, unless summoned. Not locked, no resistance. She reaches for the light switch but changes her mind, opts for the stablight instead.

The servitor is still there, a heap on the floor.

Or the servitor has been put out of commission, allowing whoever entered the building twenty days to do whatever they set out to do in here. That is worse. A narrow timeframe would make it easier to pinpoint who was responsible. It also means that whatever was done was something that the servitor could accidentally undo.

“I think you’re right. There might be explosives,” she tells Lynch over the micro-bead.

“It’s a bug,” Lynch replies.

“What?”

“The lamp,” he tells her. “Someone’s bugged the place.”

Of course he took it down. Of course he couldn’t stay put. Couldn’t just wait for her to investigate. Could have blown his hands off, or his head, if he’d been wrong.

She reaches down, touches the servitor. It is staring blankly onto the floor, but the skin is still warm. There is a pulse, steady if somewhat shallow breaths. Not dead. Paralyzed. Significantly less time than twenty days have passed since its last feeding of nutrient paste then. A week or less, she’d wager.

“You’ll be alright,” she tells it, pats its arm. “Just wait a little while longer.”

“What?” Lynch on the other end.

“Not you,” Holly gets to her feet again.

It doesn’t add up. Why disable the servitor if all you have done is bug the building? If you place the equipment well the servitor won’t notice it either, won’t remove it as part of the cleaning process. Letting the servitor tidy up would, if anything, help remove any signs of disturbance.

There is somewhere the servitor must not go that is part of its routine.

The 472nd are the right people, at the right place, at the right time, assigned the right task. Why change that?

Because you want Lynch out of his living quarters. Because you want to know what he talks about with his untouchable. Because the untouchable was a damned fool and confessed that she has done work for the Inquisition. Because you think they are on to you.

Holly walks back to the common room, goes to the doorframe that leads to the hallway to her and Jarvis’ room. Kneels down, shines the stablight slowly over the long, narrow hallway floor. It is too far away to be entirely certain, but she thinks she spots some unevenness further down. Dried mud, probably. There is only one room down that hallway.

 _You brought this onto yourself_ , she berates herself. She had wanted to hunt so badly after months of standing around doing nothing that she said too much. Could have gotten herself killed. Could have gotten Jarvis killed. _This is why you’re not trusted with big missions on your own_.

She turns off the stablight, returns to the antechamber. Finds Lynch waiting for her, bolt pistol in one hand, broken bug in the other, disassembled lamp at his feet. He looks displeased, becomes even more so when she tells him her suspicions of what waits in her and Jarvis’ room, possibly elsewhere as well.

For three nights Holly sleeps in a cot in the tall commissar’s dining room, two meters away from Lynch, the table between them. Jarvis is not allowed to visit in the evening, the other commissar is firm on that point. Holly doesn’t argue. Understands. The current arrangement would make such visits beyond uncomfortable for everyone involved. They talk over micro-bead instead, never for long, but at least it is in a different room from Lynch now that they are back at the base.

She had assumed that Lynch would choose to share a living space with the old commissar, but when she asks he informs her that it wouldn’t be appropriate. Isn’t sure what to make of that.

The tall commissar is a little surprised when Lynch insists that Holly eats with them, reminds him that they are not supposed to befriend their subordinates. She is right, of course, but Lynch dismisses her reprimand out of hand. Tells his fellow commissar that they don’t have to put the fear of the Emperor in everyone, that Holly is not a guardswoman.

He has the same casual attitude when he is informed that the tech-priests combing over their living quarters have found well over half a dozen pieces of surveillance equipment. Doesn’t seem bothered when they are told that one tech-priest has been injured by a rigged frag grenade despite using a large claw appendage when he tried to open Holly’s bedroom door. Does take the time to congratulate her on her good instincts. The tall commissar makes a humming sound that might be an agreement.

The findings irk her, increasingly so the more she thinks about the situation. It feels wrong, out of place. Not the idea that someone would try to murder her, that she understands. Accepts readily enough. It’s the combination. Explosives and bugs. If you bug a place you are in it for the long haul. You don’t want to be discovered, to arouse suspicion, attention. Explosives are very attention grabbing. Why would someone plant a bug inside the ventilation shaft in her room and then rig a frag grenade to kill her when she opens the door? No one individual would, she has to conclude.

She isn’t the only one with suspicions. The tall commissar brings it up in the evening during dinner. A thick green vegetable soup with soft pale grey cubes floating in it that make an unpleasant squeaking noise against her teeth when she chews them. Taste fine though, goes well with the dark bread served with it.

“I think we are looking at two independent parties,” the commissar declares as she tears her bread in two above her bowl, lets the crumbs fall into the soup quite on purpose. Her new arm doesn’t move as smoothly as one would expect from a prosthetic, a bit jerky, almost like Holly’s own movements when she relaxes. Still, it gets the job done.

“I think we are looking at time consuming interrogations that will keep me busy for weeks,” Lynch mutters.

“Ask Zima to assist then, she likes interrogations.”

“I wouldn’t want to give her the impression that I can’t do it myself,” Lynch sighs, musters up a tired smile. “She might write an overly formal letter to her father and insist he undo my promotion to full commissar. But in all seriousness, I agree. The bugs must have been planted first, the grenade second. Have you made any enemies here, Bleak?”

She pauses at that. Supposes that there are the two men who previously guarded the door at night, but they are both dead. The dead are, for the most part, unlikely to attempt to murder you.

“Not that I am aware of,” she confesses. “But I expect that there are plenty who would prefer it if I was not around.”

“Hm,” he stirs his soup with his spoon as he considers the situation.

In a shocking coincidence two guards assigned to door duty together during the early morning hours have died during their three-week absence. At least, they are suspected to be dead. One has technically gone missing, but has also left his weapons and all personal belongings behind. The other fell from a guard tower five days before they returned.

“I questioned the guard stationed in the tower at the time of the incident myself,” the other woman tells them, far too loud for an audience sitting so close to her. “He had no idea why Tran was there in the first place and claims that they were having a chat when he thought he saw something in the distance. He takes a closer look, hears a shriek, turns around, and our suspect is gone.”

“The walls are too high for someone to accidentally fall over them,” Lynch comments.

“A psyker could have puppeteered him,” Holly offers.

“Mm… Varela, would you do me a favor and account for the whereabouts of the psykers during the past week?” he asks. “If you have the time while I get my hands bloody, so to say?”

“Certainly.”

He does get his hands bloody before the day is over, but Lynch displays no enthusiasm for the interrogations. Is unusually quiet in the evening. He knows just as well as Holly does that the people who allowed her would-be assassin inside are dead. Loose ends become dead ends. It is only sensible.

Holly learns more from the tech-priests’ observations, truth be told. There was no plate in her bedroom, she is informed when she asks. The servitor was allowed to clean without interruptions one night at least. It appears to have gone without being fed for so long that it was approaching critical condition. Around a week of starvation, they estimate. Still, it is flesh enhanced with machine, durable. Three days later it is doing its nightly rounds again.

The same length of time it takes before they move back into familiar rooms that feel wrong.

On Lynch’s request her damaged bed is replaced with two beds tightly strapped together, much to Holly’s unspoken disapproval. The battered chair is swapped out in favor of a near identical copy. The new door is brown rather than white, still has no lock. There are dents in the walls, the floor, the dresser from the explosion, the shards carefully removed alongside the bugs. The carpet remains, just a little nicked.

It takes Holly another three days of crawling, climbing, digging through their living quarters, room by room, furniture by furniture, before she gives up. Finds nothing in the cushions, only empty ventilation systems, no loose floorboards. Takes apart lamps and chairs, puts them back together without finding anything of interest. Spends three hours going over the servitor, its clothes, its body, its metal enhancements. Apologizes for the inconvenience, for the indignity, for her paranoia. Gets only silence in return.

Lynch is a little amused at first, watching her methodically tear their living quarters apart, put it back together. On the second day of her search for anything overlooked by the tech-priests he sighs.

“You are very dedicated,” he tells her, in a tone that suggests that perhaps it would be better if she relaxed a little.

“We don’t know if the tech-priests were responsible,” she tells him, pulls out the drawers from his desk, places them on the floor for closer inspection.

There is nothing. No. She finds nothing, she corrects herself. Goes over her own room and bathroom a second time before she allows Jarvis to set foot in the building again. It has been a week since they returned to base at that point, they have barely talked, her investigations taking precedence.

By the time she goes to barrack 19, asks Jarvis to come back to their room, a month has passed since they last shared a bed. She can tell that something is wrong even as they walk hand in hand to the living quarters. He is too quiet, too reserved. Looks at her but looks away when she meets his eyes.

“It is safe,” she assures him. “I’ve checked everywhere, twice.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” he tells her. The smile he gives her is forced, holds no mirth, no happiness.

He is a little surprised at the makeshift double bed. Tosses his jacket onto the dresser, kicks his boots over to the wall, gives the new bed a test sit. Confirms that it is indeed the same make and model as the previous one, only two bedframes welded together.

“Is this the commissar giving us his seal of approval?” he asks her, an attempt at a smile on his lips. A little more genuine this time.

“I think he gave us that a long time ago,” Holly tells him, returns the smile. She hates the new bed already. It is too big. Takes up too much of the room. Is going to put too much space between them.

“How are you holding up?” Jarvis asks her, sitting on the bed. Feet on the red and white rug, one sock is starting to wear thin at the heel, needs to be replaced or repaired.

“I’m fine,” she tells him, keeps her voice neutral. Finishes laying out her weapons on the dresser, neat, orderly.

“You sure?” he sounds unconvinced as he frees himself of his sweater, tosses it across the room, hits the wall over the dresser, a foot and a half away from her. It lands in a rumpled heap on top of his jacket. She can’t fault his aim, at least.

“Yes, of course.”

“Someone tried to murder you.”

“Yes,” she agrees, sits down on the chair, takes off her left shoe. “It isn’t the first time. I seem to have that effect on people.”

Hears a disapproving sigh rather than a chuckle as she removes the second shoe, places it next to the chair, side by side with its twin. Neat, orderly, right. Jarvis has never commented on her particularly brand of tidiness, though she knows he thinks it is too much. Could never bother with it himself. Doesn’t understand how not putting an item back in its designated place irks the eye, yet she suspects he appreciates her need to do so now.

“I’m honestly more concerned about the bugs,” Holly tells him, means it. Doesn’t tell him why, but that issue is for her to mull over.

“Alright,” he relents, begins to unbutton his shirt. “And the whole cave situation?”

“Hm? Oh, that,” she gets to her feet, unbuttons her jacket. It’s been about a month since that, she has managed to isolate the memory, push it away, ignore it. It will not be an issue. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Wechsler said you seemed upset.”

There are moments when she misses the early days of their relationship, when she could reply with a word, a short sentence, have it accepted without argument, the topic dropped. He prods more these days, wants explanations, information that she cannot readily offer.

“I’m fine, really,” she turns around, smiles to appease him, assure him that he need not keep asking. Hangs up her jacket.

The silence that follows is deceitful. For a moment she thinks that he’ll let it go, move on to something more pleasant. Maybe repeat some good joke one of the guardsmen told during their venture. She is wrong, of course. She is wrong about a lot of things these days.

“Holly,” Jarvis says, having abandoned unbuttoning his shirt halfway through. “Are we… Are we ok?”

She pauses at that, uncertain herself. He’s been acting strange today, she doesn’t know why. Finds it distressing.

“I thought we were,” she tells him. “Are we?”

“It’s just…” For once he is the one who struggles to find the words. She isn’t sure how she feels about that. Has always trusted that she could rely on his experience in these matters when she stumbled. “I understood that you wouldn’t have time for me during the expedition, but then you came over to say goodnight and, and it was really nice,” he adds quickly. “But then… I thought you’d come by again, which is on me, but it got a bit rough as the weeks passed. And then we get back here, and… I still haven’t really seen you for a full week.”

“I’ve been busy,” she tells him, feels strangely cornered, defensive. “Commissar Varela didn’t allow any visitors.”

“I understand, but,” he clears his throat, looks around the room. Back at her. “You’ve been sleeping here for a couple of days, and… You’re not really talking to me. That gives me the impression that things aren’t right.”

“I’m talking to you,” she says. They are talking right now, she wants to point out. Refrains.

“But you’re not,” he insists, despite the evidence to the contrary. “You’re shutting me down.”

They look at each other for a moment before she turns away, face still, revealing nothing. Hears him sigh. Begins to unbutton her own shirt. Murder attempts, dead children, servitors discarded without a second thought. It is better not to dwell on such things, she knows. Not to speak of them. It can lead to dangerous thoughts, dangerous words. Doubt. Holly knows she is doing the right thing by being silent, and yet it feels wrong. He wants more of her, again. Needs more. 

Her hands drop to her sides, awkward, unnatural. When she turns around, he’s watching her, leaning forward, elbows against his knees, hands covering his mouth. Doesn’t say anything when she walks over, sits down next to him. She can’t help but to think of sitting next to Lynch. Of getting things wrong again.

“The children… I’ve seen worse,” Holly tells him. It is true. Infants impaled on spikes, dismembered people somehow still alive, still screaming, a kaleidoscope of human bodies twisted into something unrecognizable. It isn’t what he wants to hear, but it is true. “I didn’t like it. But… it happened. I try not to think too much about such things.”

Jarvis still doesn’t say anything, sits up properly though, watches her. There is something in his expression that worries her, but she can’t pinpoint what’s wrong. Something is though.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Do you want me to move my face more?”

“What?” he seems a bit surprised. Surprise is better than whatever was going on inside of him before.

“I’m doing something wrong, I can tell, but I don’t know what.”

“No, hey, you don’t have to bother with any of that, you know that,” Jarvis insists. She supposes that she does. He has said so, more than once. Yet she still finds it difficult to believe, it sounds like a lie however earnestly spoken. “I just want you to talk to me. I want to know when you’re upset. If you are upset.”

If.

If the sight of children being gunned down bothers her.

“I have feelings, Jarvis,” she says quietly, turns away from him. It isn’t the first time someone has suggested that she is empty inside, insinuated that feelings are intrinsically tied to the possession of a soul. Ironically, it hurts her feelings to be reduced to a completely hollow body. Hurts more, coming from him.

“Hey, no, no no,” he puts an arm around her, stops her train of thought by pressing his lips against her temple. “I know you’ve got feelings, Holly. I just want to know what they are. I want to know what’s going on in your head.”

Oh.

Well.

He isn’t the only one. The fact that no one can read her mind has long been a point of contention among her fellow inquisitorial agents. Some more openly bothered by their inability to learn what she is really thinking by neither body language nor psyker than others. Her mind is hers. It might be the only thing that truly is.

She is quiet for a little while; he waits patiently for her to sort out her thoughts. Figure out how to formulate herself. He seems to understand they have hit another patch of unfamiliar territory.

“I…” she starts slowly. “Of course I found it distressing. I wish it had been different, I wish that they would have surrendered when offered the chance to do so. They were only…” she trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

“Children,” Jarvis fills in softly. 

Mutants, she wants to say. Keeps it to herself. Leans against his shoulder, lets him pull her into a sideways hug. They were only mutants, through no fault of their own. Evidently born twisted, malformed. A sign of their corrupt and sinful souls, she has been told by people who will readily call her a mutant as well, if definitions are to be made. An equation that doesn’t add up.

Holly supposes she is lucky no one can read her mind after all. Wants to think that Jarvis would understand, long years with the Inquisition planting its seeds of distrust, telling her that she can’t risk it. People have been killed for less heretical ideas. Some at her own hands.

He touches her face gently, as if wiping away tears she will never shed. Smiles a little at her, brief but more genuine than before. Seems to accept that this is as much of her thoughts she is able to part with this time. Every fiber of her being objects to speaking of such things, but she doubts he understands the enormity of what he is asking of her.

“You… realize it scared me when I heard about the attempt at your life, right?”

Holly looks at him, blinks, looks away. She should probably have considered that, should probably have requested an hour or two away from Lynch to spend with Jarvis, to ensure that he knew she was safe, no harm done. The call was probably not enough. There were more important things at hand, but she should probably have put aside time for him anyway.

“Holly?” he lifts her chin, looks worried. “You realize that, right?”

“I… it didn’t cross my mind. I was busy. I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ll do better.”

“No, babe, come on,” he leans down, kisses her. How she’s missed his kisses. “I just…”

She pulls him in for another kiss, one more, one more. Finally relents when he doesn’t respond, only smiles.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Jarvis says, leans his forehead against hers, noses touching. She kisses him again.

He’s quiet for a little while, runs a finger along her jawline. The smile fades, the lines on his forehead deepen as a worried frown begins to form. He leans back, sits up straight again, swallows. Something is troubling him, so she waits, doesn’t suggest that he should discard his clothes and make up for lost time, though she wants to.

“Has Lynch questioned Stannard’s old regiment?” he asks.

“Why?” she asks, thoughts of nibbling sensitive skin slipping from her mind like water through fingers.

“Cause they are stationed in barrack 16, together with the Vostroyans who Wechsler has been getting friendly with. Probably to get at their moonshine, but whatever,” Jarvis tells her. Holly suspects it has more to do with exchanging filthy stories but doesn’t interrupt. “About a week or so after, after Stannard died,” he says, sidestepping everything that led up to the other guardsman having the inside of his head splattered across the barrack floor, “a day or two before we left, two of the women came over to talk to her. Well, to us. There’d been some grumblings about…”

He grows quiet, looks away. Takes her hand in his, runs calloused fingers over hers.

“Look, I fucked up, but they’re blaming you. They said some shit that… You can tell they served in an all-male company before.”

That would mean something uncouth, as Singh would put it. Holly has been around enough unsavory people to get an idea without forcing Jarvis to repeat it. That isn’t the surprising part of what he is telling her.

“The Vostroyan guardswomen,” she says quietly. “Are they… looking out for me?”

“Well, yeah? Why wouldn’t they?” he looks at her, confused, before his expression softens, gets a little sad. “Holly…”

She smiles quickly, too quickly for either of them to be able to even pretend that it is genuine. She hadn’t even been around the Vostroyan women at that point. Walked past them every now and again. They had no reason to protect her. She’s just the commissar’s pet untouchable. Barely even a person.

“Must have been some pretty unpleasant stuff to warrant that,” she says.

Jarvis pulls her in for a tight hug, doesn’t comment, confirms it with his silence. She feels strangely safe, despite his concerns. Despite the warnings. Despite the murder attempt. It is a peculiarly light feeling, being surrounded by people who want to protect her from harm. A novel experience.

“I’ll tell Lynch,” she assures him, certain that that is all it will take. “He might want to hear the full story from you first though,” she warns. “I don’t have to be there.”

He nods slowly, evidently not thrilled with the idea, but he’ll do it. Sees the necessity, though the reluctance is palpable. Holly kisses him again, lazily runs her fingers over his chest, tugging at his half-open shirt. Jarvis slowly relaxes, leans into the embrace a bit more.

“Something else happened,” she says after a moment of silence. “With Lynch.”

She feels him tense at that, the even rhythm of his breathing coming to a brief halt. A stronger reaction than she expected, it has to be said. He slowly relaxes his hold on her, gives her some space though she never requested it.

“Go on…”

“It was after the cave,” she looks at their legs next to each other, close, touching. His knees are massive compared to hers. “He… You can’t tell anyone,” she looks up at him. Sees him nod, frowning.

“I won’t,” Jarvis assures her. The words come out slowly, gives her the impression that he already doesn’t care for what she is about to say.

“He was upset, about the children, the lack of any real findings, and… He sat down on my bed and talked and,” she hesitates, seeing his grim expression. Feels as if she shouldn’t tell him after all. Perhaps she will upset him as well. Still, he wanted her to share her thoughts, she wants his input. “I tried to comfort him. I thought that… that he needed comforting. I think I might have made a mistake. He told me to leave. To go and say goodnight to you. And he wanted me close the entire trip, so I know I did something wrong I just don’t know what.”

Holly watches him, sees that he is concerned. Waits for him to talk, to explain or ask questions. It takes a little while before he speaks.

“How did you try to comfort him?”

“Just…” she disentangles herself from him, puts a hand on his back, moves it in a circle, gently, pace even.

“Mm,” he watches her, manages a forced smile, pats her leg just above the knee. He seems a little less stiff than before. “Holly, I know you meant well, but… maybe not touch the commissars?”

“I just thought… Lynch has been kind to me,” she tries to explain. She wouldn’t have done the same for any of the other commissars here, or any of the others she has met. Lynch is different, Lynch treats her differently. “I thought I should be kind in return.”

“Even so.”

“Because of my condition?”

“No, no,” he says readily enough. Seems genuine at least, but he is hardly a neutral party fit to make such a judgment call. “Unless you’re saving their life, it’s frowned upon. If I pulled that shit, I’d be in for a flogging, bare minimum.”

Preferential treatment, again. Combined with rejection. Another equation that doesn’t add up.

Jarvis pats her thigh again, smiles at her but it seems sad.

“I’d prefer it if you weren’t so friendly with the commissar. He already calls you Holly.”

“It is my name.”

“Honey, I call my own cousin by her surname,” he tries to elaborate. “And we made mud pies together as kids.”

“He calls me Bleak around the rest of command.”

“See,” he holds up a finger, seems uncertain what to do with it, lets out a sigh. Sounds frustrated. She isn’t getting something that should be obvious, again. His unwillingness to say it outright suggests critique of Lynch. He knows she won’t tell, but a decade of service has left its marks on him same as it has on her. “That’s… Yeah. Just, please, no more touching him?”

Holly nods, can tell that he’s agitated in a different way from before. Tries wrapping her arms around him to see how he reacts. He responds with pulling her closer, kisses the top of her head. Not angry with her. Very well.

“I’m sorry,” she says into his neck. “This was never an issue in the past. People just… avoid me, so I don’t really know where the boundaries are, I never had to learn the fine details.”

“I know,” he assures her, rubs her back. It feels nice, comforting, safe. And yet it was wrong before. She is going to have to apologize to Lynch for having been unintentionally inappropriate. Hopes that they can move past it, pretend it never happened. That all three of them can.

“Jarvis?” she says after a little while.

“Mm?”

“What are mud pies?”

The mood changes. He tells her of childhood games, of make-believe, fencing with sticks, jumping in puddles. Challenges between four brothers to eat the most ants, climb the highest, run the fastest. Guessing games, pebble tossing, rolling down grassy hills until you are too dizzy to walk straight. A life wrought by an agri-world untouched by any significant hardship for generations, allowed to flourish because they were able to deliver their quotas, sometimes more. A life that abruptly ended as the population grew much larger than necessary for its purpose, Astra Militarum descending, demanding a quota of their own for the first time in eight generations.

She tells him of watching other children play with strings, word games, clapping games with accompanying rhymes. Tells him of the games she would play. Skipping games in staircases, races against no one, shadowing unsuspecting neighbors. Climbing pipes, exploring ventilation systems, investigating maintenance rooms.

Tells him of how her adventures in the ventilation systems came to a stop when she stumbled upon a violent one-sided exchange between the hab block police and two men tied to chairs. How she promptly got escorted back to her apartment by officer Skinner. He offered her a tooth if she promised that she would stay clear of that area in the future. She had accepted, but mostly because of the weapons that had been drawn on her when the ventilation grate gave way under her, sent her tumbling into the room. The tooth was still sleek with blood when he tossed it to her. It was left behind when she was taken away in the Black Ship, for a different sort of quota. No more games after that.

It grows late, they undress, get ready for bed. She pulls the nightgown over her head, lets it slide down her back, nudges it past her butt, lets it fall down, cover her thighs. Jarvis is quiet as she gets into bed, turns her pillow over, prods it a little to even it out. Watches her from the bathroom door. He finished brushing his teeth a little while ago, she isn’t sure what is taking him so long.

Their eyes meet, she pats the mattress to tell him to come over to the far too big bed. He turns off the light in the bathroom, closes the door. Leaves the bedroom lights on as he approaches her. Not ready to sleep, then.

“Are you tired?” he asks, sits down next to her.

“Not too tired? What’s wrong?” Easy conversations can be had in the dark while they wait for sleep to claim them. This, then, is not an easy conversation. A continuation of their previous one, no doubt.

Jarvis shakes his head, leans in to kiss her. Ah. Not a conversation. He tastes of toothpaste, smells familiar, soothing, a hint of lho-stick alongside his own scent. The stubble is a little bit more pronounced than usual, he will probably shave in the morning. His kisses are soft, slow, missed.

She runs her fingers over his chest, feels the swell and dip of muscle, the uneven scar tissue, the trail of hair. When he slowly lies down on the bed she follows, feels a small rush of delight when he wraps his arms around her, pulls her close. Continues to kiss her unhurriedly as she slips her arms around him. It reminds her of their second night together. Slow, gentle, exploring. His free hand studies her shape, pushes the nightgown up over her hips, but he remains lying still on his side, face to face. Not quite like the second night together.

She pulls away a little, opens her eyes, meets his. Wishes she could read faces better, can tell that there is something going on, can’t explain it. Jarvis lies still for a little while, his fingers continuing to trace a small area at the upper back of her thigh, never traveling so high as to reach her ass. Watches him watching her. Holly leans in, connect their lips again, feels the hand move down to the back of her knee, touch growing ever lighter, almost tickling her.

Holly glances down, the hand stays put, makes lazy circles against the sensitive skin. When she kisses him again it trails back up, finds a new place to stroke when she stops.

“Are we playing a game?” she asks, takes care to smile. Wants him to know she is not opposed to it.

“Maybe,” he murmurs.

Not any game I ever played as a child, she almost says, bites her tongue. Knows better. Pushes that comment aside, out of her mind. Moves her leg up instead, feels his hand follow, leans the foot on his ankle. Warm.

It feels like a blissful eternity lying there, kissing, stopping, kissing again until his hand slides from her side, fingers light against her skin, leaving a tingling in their wake. Down to her hip, her thigh, inner thigh, up, fingers brushing her groin. She stops kissing him, lets out a soft hum, moves her leg up further, around his, welcoming him. Feels him caress her, circling patiently until she leans forward just enough to kiss him again, feels his left arm press closer around her back, warm, safe. Two fingers slide into her.

She doesn’t move her face for him, focuses on his fingers inside of her, moving back and forth over just the right spot. Her eyes half lidded, mouth slightly open, enjoying the feeling of him. He has had plenty of opportunities to get to know her body, learned what she likes. A small smile forms on his lips as the rhythm of her breath changes. She hikes her leg up higher, angles her hips a little towards him.

 _More_ , she wants to say, doesn’t have to. A little firmer, a little faster, steady pace.

“Look at me,” he whispers against her lips. She complies, they are too close for her to really be able to focus on his face, but she is close, so close.

A small wheezing noise escapes her lips as she comes, arms wrapped around his neck, noses touching. He continues pumping his fingers into her as she clings to him, waits for her to relax before slowing down, pulls her closer to him with his left arm, kisses her deeply as his right hand withdraws.

She is still breathing heavily when he rolls them over, places her on her back, him above her. Not her favorite, but that is alright, if that is what he wants she doesn’t mind, knows he’ll put in the effort to ensure her enjoyment. She wraps her legs around him, shifts to hike her left leg up higher, a bit of mild contorting to get the angle right for her. Nudges his hips closer, feels him enter her, a little spark of pleasure against the backdrop of her faded orgasm. Presses her legs against him a little firmer, urges him to go deeper, feels him fill her, welcome, wanted. 

The pace he sets is almost unbearably slow, stays slow. As if he is determined to draw it out throughout the entire night. And yet, if drawn-out is what he wants then she can endure the unhurried, teasing thrusts. Jarvis places his left hand on her hip, leans his weight on his right arm, rests his forehead against hers. Tonight is different. He wants something different, something more. A running theme for the evening it seems. Wishes that she knew what so she could provide it.

The hand on her hip disappears, he leans his arm against the mattress on the other side of her head. Keeps thrusting, keeps watching her face. Leans down to kiss her, pleasant, gentle. She runs her fingers through his hair, across the muscles on his back, feels his hand on her right arm, nudging. She follows, lets him press it against the mattress next to her head, his hand sliding up to her wrist, her hand. She parts her fingers, allows him to slip his between hers, bends her fingers to hold his hand, meets his lips again.

He moves a little faster, mercifully, faster again, seems to have found what he was looking for. His fingers tighten around her hand as he comes, pushing himself deep in her. Mumbles something against her lips that she can’t quite make out, Holly kisses the trace of it, trusting that the words held kindness.

Jarvis is still for a little while before bringing her hand to his lips, kisses her fingers before pulling out. They shift together, sideways again, face to face. It is easier to move now that the bed is twice as large, it has to be said. He stays, doesn’t get up to get his lho-sticks as expected. She is about to ask when he kisses her, his hand once more running down her body, destination apparent.

“Again?” she asks.

His fingers reach her clitoris, start slow, wide circles. She just about catches a soft agreeing hum as she sucks in a deep breath. Feels him kiss her face, lips, cheeks, jawline, lips again as she reaches for him, holds on to his neck, his arm.

“Look at me,” he repeats. Again, she opens her eyes, complies, a better distance this time. Watches him watching her with that soft expression as she trembles under his touch. It grows firmer, narrower, as if he has learned how to read her hiked breath, knows when she is close.

The second orgasm comes softly, warmth rolling through her body, her muscles relaxing, letting her sink into the mattress with a slowly exhaled breath. Dazed she accepts the kiss, the little pecks that follow in its wake. Lies limp, warm, a little sore, watches him lying next to her for a little while, watching her. Wants to keep him.

Eventually he gets out of bed, the routine resumes. Jacket, lho-stick, lighter, plate, back to bed. Smokes while he holds her, a little quieter than usual tonight. So is she. Too relaxed, too spent.

She doesn’t recall Jarvis putting out the stump, putting away the plate, getting up, turning off the light. She vaguely remembers waking in the dark when he pulls her close, moving to rest her head on his shoulder, feels him stroke her hair. Still close, despite the too large bed. Sleep pulls her into its dark depths again, heavy, pleasant, warm, safe.


	10. Useful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an attempt to keep a theme running I had to do some rearranging and this went from “three chapters in a row nearly done” to “wait, hold on, um…” for a month and a half. But while I wallowed in indecisiveness I did have the time to do [portraits](https://zenatness.tumblr.com/post/628816815216312320/supporting-cast-for-my-wip-but-only-the-people) of all the characters Holly deem worthy of referring to by name. And a bonus Zima.

Holly apologizes to Lynch the next morning. Has both her apology and the uncomfortable situation brushed aside with a casual “Don’t worry about it.” It has been a long time since she attempted to comfort him, she supposes that plays a part. He treats her no different than he did before they visited region 27G. Still calls her Holly. She doesn’t mind, doesn’t ask him to stop. Perhaps it is unprofessional, but so is their whole arrangement. Unprofessional but not unacceptable.

She tells him of Stannard’s companions, waits outside the office while Jarvis explains in more detail in the evening. Waits outside the interrogation room the following day. Isn’t quite sure if it was Lynch’s decision alone or Jarvis’ request, but the exact words used to threaten her never reach her ears.

The squad in question is made up by four men, the remains of an armored regiment. There is limited use for tanks on Eden 39 with the enemy burrowing deep underground, so they have been repurposed, much like the Centaurs. Given duties at base, allowed to stay behind when so many of their peers were sent to region 27G. Before the day comes to an end they are pointing fingers at one another. Lynch is quite pleased during their late dinner.

“We’ve found one of our culprits, at least,” he tells her. “Davis confessed to bribing Tran, pulling some plugs on the servitor, rigging the frag grenade.”

“You’re certain it was him?”

“Quite,” he smiles, pleased indeed. “Provided dates, times, described how he went about things. Denies having anything to do with Tran’s death or Williams’ disappearance though. But,” he adds, gesturing with his fork, “knowing he set it up six days before we returned could help narrow things down.”

“That is true,” she agrees. It means that whoever hid the surveillance equipment had two weeks to work with rather than three. Not much in terms of narrowing down the list of suspects, but she supposes it is something.

“And seeing how Williams went missing the following day, and Tran got himself thrown off that guard tower the same evening,” he taps a finger against the knife’s handle. “Whoever bugged the place found out someone else was being allowed into the building and got nervous.”

“And got rid of the guards they probably bribed themselves,” Holly nods.

“Mhm,” he chews, eyes wandering the room as if it will reveal the past if only he sees it in the right light. “If Williams turns up alive I think we’ll be able to get to the bottom of it, but I find that doubtful.”

Holly can’t help but to agree. Either the missing guardsman is dead and disposed of, hiding somewhere at base, or has run off into the increasingly cold wilderness. There are no missing vehicles, the nearest settlement is weeks away on foot. If he’s attempted to run odds are neither guard nor daemon would be required to end his life. If the other guardsman had been killed first there would be room to argue that the missing man realized he was in danger, hid away. But that is not the case.

“All psykers were accounted for?” she asks.

“Yes,” he grimaces. “We’ve got a handful of suspects, but Varela has talked to them. Well, she’s talked to one of them in particular. Fannon’s one of the senior psykers, adept at mindreading, and she was on a mission with one of Varela’s squads during the last two weeks we were away.”

Holly nods. The psyker in question wouldn’t have been involved in throwing the guardsman off the tower then. Good.

“A bit of questioning, a bit of prodding. For good or ill, the psykers seem to be blameless in this mess.”

She wants to ask if he trusts the other commissar, if her verdict can be accepted as truth. Refrains. Lynch chose to house them both under the tall woman’s roof when their quarters were compromised. He has more faith in her than the other two commissars, likely trusts the commissars more than anyone else present on the planet. Herself excluded, perhaps. Probably.

Their eyes meet briefly, Holly smiles softly, moves her eyebrows for a gentle frown, nods.

“For good or ill,” she echoes.

If something has changed between her and Jarvis she cannot say. He is, perhaps, a bit more intense than before the excursion. Picks her up in the hallway the second evening after Lynch is done with him, carries her to their room, concerns for his just healed injuries be damned. Undresses them both, leaves a terrible mess on the floor as he does so. The third evening he pulls her into the shower the moment she puts away her toothbrush. The fourth evening he is satisfied to lie naked in bed, touching, talking, a little teasing.

Jarvis traces her areola with a finger, as if memorizing the pattern of the little bumps. As if there is a secret message there that he aims to decipher. He is fond of the two freckles on her left breast, claims they must have fallen down from her shoulders.

The downside to his improved health has made itself known. Another scouting mission is lined up. Not very far away this time, more to patrol the perimeter than anything else.

“I’m just glad it’s not another mine crawl,” he tells her, caressing her breast with the air of a man who has nothing else he would rather do. “I always end up with a damn headache.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he looks up at her, smiles though the topic doesn’t warrant it. “The kind that lingers for a day or two. It’s not just me, either, everyone’s complaining about the bad air down there, especially in the ones that aren’t living quarters yet.”

She pauses at that, barely registers that he leans in to kiss her freckled shoulder. There is something to that statement. The thought is there, just out of reach, but she can sense it.

“Did you get a headache when I was with you?” Holly asks.

“Hm? Yeah? Fairly mild one,” he shrugs.

“You didn’t say.”

“It wasn’t important?”

It is his turn to be bewildered by her prodding. She sits up, folds her legs underneath her, looks at the blatant disappointment on his face. Decides to ignore it. This is more important.

“When?”

“I don’t know?” Jarvis frowns. “After a while?”

“Did you get a headache before or after I burned that room?” she clarifies.

He considers it, though he evidently would prefer to change the topic, have her lie down next to him again, gestures vaguely with one hand.

“After, I think. Yeah, cause Coleman commented that the air was pretty good in that mine while you were away, and we all had a go at him because we were all wearing rebreathers at the time.”

Holly’s eyes dart across the room, spots her rust red nightgown at the foot of the bed. Reaches for it, pauses as Jarvis makes a disappointed noise.

“I need to talk to Lynch,” she tells him.

“What? No, hey, stop,” he reaches out, grabs her arm as she is about to pull the garment over her head. “Clothes, Holly. Please.”

“Clothes,” she agrees, gestures with the nightgown.

“Actual clothes.”

“I’ve seen dresses that cover less.”

“Holly, sweetheart, please. Unless it’s a matter of life and death, don’t go to the commissar in only your nightgown. Please.”

He is being ridiculous, but she is trying to hold on to her train of thought, trying to organize it. Can’t do that and argue with him. She wants to point out that while she and Lynch slept fully clothed during the three weeks they shared a tent that was due to the cold. That she wore her nightgown to bed when they slept in the tall commissar’s dining room. That Lynch didn’t think it was worthy of comment. But that is not important right now. She has to focus. 

She gets out of bed, dresses hastily, gives him half-answers when he asks what’s wrong, can’t afford to be distracted. Underwear, pants, shirt. She is still buttoning her shirt when she walks out of the room, fast, her bare feet audible against cold floor.

Holly turns on the lights in the building as she goes, makes her way to Lynch’s bedroom, knocks rapidly at the door. There is no response. She uses the flat of her hand instead of her knuckles, a louder, duller series of thuds. 

“Sir?” she calls out.

“What? Wait, hold on,” he answers from the other side. She can hear him drop something, curse, finally stumble over to the door. “What is it, Holly?” he asks, pulling a robe closed around him as he cracks the door open.

The robe hardly covers more than her nightgown, she notes. Feels vindicated. It covers the arms completely but has a low cut, is a little shorter.

“Sir,” Holly repeats. “We need to talk.”

“Now? It’s late, I really would rather-”

“ _Now_ ,” she interrupts firmly. Appreciates that he grows silent, lets her continue. “It’s the mines.”

“The mines? What about them?”

“I think… I don’t have any proof, but I have a theory,” she explains as Lynch stifles a yawn. His hair is a right mess, she evidently dragged him out of bed. “Do you know what the mineral that they are mining here is used for?”

“No,” he agrees readily enough, without a care in the world. “Clear the planet of the daemon infestation, get production up and running again. Those are our instructions. Didn’t even tell us what they were mining and when that sort of information is left out of the briefing, it’s on purpose.”

“I think it’s connected to the warp, somehow.”

“Come again?” he blinks, as if he isn’t sure if he heard her right.

“The psykers that go into the mines lose control of their powers far more easily than those that don’t. At least some of them complained about headaches after just entering the mines, and I just learned that the guardsmen get headaches when they explore them.”

“That could just be bad air,” he says, of a mind with Jarvis in that regard.

“It could, but the 116th seem to only have gotten headaches after I left their side, and I was never affected at all.”

“Just because members of the _472 nd_ got headaches and you didn’t-”

He stops himself midsentence when she presses her lips together and frowns ever so slightly the way she has seen the blonde commissar do. Moves his hand from his chest towards her, palm up, silently yields, allows her to continue.

“If my _theory_ is right, sir, it would explain the mutations as well. These people work in the mines, handle the mineral, and then move into the mines as soon as there is room because of the harsh weather. The mutations here are not from a single stable strain. They are all different and there’s a lot of them. That suggests that something is wrong on this planet, something that seems to affect children in the womb as well as adults. I saw something similar downriver from a medical research facility once. The pollution was the cause, not abandoning the Emperor’s light or other corrupting forces. Obviously, with the daemons there are clear signs of corruption here, and they may go hand in hand, but I suspect that the mining of the mineral predates the daemonic presence. It might even be the cause.”

The tome doesn’t fit, of course. It doesn’t disprove her theory either, but the theory cannot explain the book’s presence. A riddle for another day.

“Very well,” Lynch says slowly, seems hesitant to play along. Mercifully does not argue that mutations are a sign of a corrupt soul. “And if your theory is right and this has nothing to do with poor ventilation and inbreeding, then the mines would be a dangerous place to send the psykers?”

“Yes. It might also endanger the guardsmen.”

“Mm. But,” he holds up a finger. “Hear me out. But what about the psyker in the interrogation room? Nowhere near the mines.”

Holly hesitates. That is true. But psykers lose control all the time, she wants to say, but knows it would undercut her argument. It also doesn’t usually go down like it did in the interrogation room. Something was wrong. She knew it then and she knows it now.

“I don’t remember exactly,” she says slowly. “I think… I would like to examine the bodies.”

“They have been disposed of.”

Burned then. Sensible. It has been a while since they died, both were warp tainted.

“The recording then,” Holly says. “I’d like to review the recording. Do you have it?”

“I… uh,” Lynch frowns, looks at his room, somehow already a right mess despite being tidied up every day by the servitor. “Not within easy reach, but I know who does.”

He steps out of the bedroom, closes the door behind him, starts to walk. She trails after him, not sure where they are going, but suspects that if she needed shoes he would put on more clothes than a robe. The path he takes is familiar. Leads them back to the common room, to the long hallway, to the brown door with no lock. Lynch’s hand reaches for the door handle, stops mid movement, knocks.

“Eade? Are you decent?”

“No,” comes the answer, the sound of Jarvis scrambling out of bed. “Just a second, commissar.”

Holly looks at Lynch, not sure what to make of this. She certainly hasn’t got a copy of the post-interrogation recording. The door is opened in short order, Jarvis having put on pants and pulled on his shirt. Not the undershirt which would be closer to the top of the pile of his discarded clothes, she notes as he is buttoning it as quickly as his hands will allow. Just the shirt. To cover his burned arm no doubt, as if it is something shameful. The thought makes her sad, distracted. It is only when Lynch speaks that she is pulled back to the present.

“The recording of Holly and the little daemons,” Lynch says, manages to look quite official even in his state of undress. She supposes that it helps that the robe follows a similar color scheme as his uniform. “I believe you have a copy?”

“I- Yes, commissar, I didn’t realize, uh,” Jarvis glances nervously at her, back to Lynch. Steps away from them, towards his half of the massive dresser. “Of course, it’s right here, I should have returned it, even-”

“It is quite alright,” Lynch says, sounds a little amused. “We just want to review the video. Holly has a theory.”

Jarvis’ hand stutters mid-movement at that, though he says nothing, finishes pulling out the drawer. He takes out a slim dataslate, hands it over.

“Thank you.”

It flickers alive easily enough. It is the cheap kind, the sort that can only support one or a handful of small files. There is just the one on this one. Lynch activates it and the shaky camera of the servoskull starts to play.

“What are we looking for?” Lynch asks her, hands it over to her.

Holly doesn’t respond, fast forwards a little. Pauses, rewinds. Pauses, rewinds, rewinds, plays, pauses, plays. There. She pauses the video, points at the screen, on the blood and ichor covered floor. 

“That.”

“The… eye?”

“Next to it.”

Lynch takes the dataslate, tilts his head to the side, squints. Tries to make out what he is looking at.

“A rock, sir,” she informs him.

“Oh, yes, I suppose it could be,” he agrees, sounds rather surprised. “But…”

He grows quiet, eyes on the screen. She doesn’t need him to speak to be able to tell that the wheels are turning in his head, dots connect, her theory gaining credibility.

“A preemptive counterattack against any psyker brought in to assist,” he concludes, no small amount of displeasure accompanying the words.

Jarvis looks between the two of them, evidently confused.

“I think the mineral is, I wouldn’t say warp tainted, but I believe it has a warp affinity,” she tries to explain. “That it is what gives you headaches, why there are so many mutants here, what makes the psykers snap in the mines, or in the interrogation room.”

“Oh,” he says, doesn’t seem entirely satisfied with the explanation.

“The problem here,” Lynch sighs, “is that we don’t know who brought the rock into the interrogation room. _If_ you are right,” he adds.

“Yes.”

If she is right, she also knows why she is really here. If she is right, the Inquisitor will want to control the mines, the access to the mineral, the potential weapons that could be forged from it. If she is right, the Inquisitor’s goals might align with that of the Astra Militarum. If she is right, she might not be asked to kill anyone at the end of her mission.

“Do we still have the guardswoman’s property somewhere?” she asks.

“Somewhere, certainly,” he agrees. “Zima will have made detailed notes and placed anything of interest somewhere safe.”

The statement starts out confident, but the certainty dwindles as it goes on, sounding more like a question once he finishes speaking. Holly appreciates the situation he finds himself in. The doubt in his fellow commissar setting in.

Someone must have brought the rock into the interrogation room, someone who had good reason to believe a psyker would be involved, someone who wanted to harm that psyker before they could learn too much. There was the guardswoman, the psyker, the commissar, the tech-priestess, and five guardsmen. Eight or nine suspects, depending on how paranoid you are. She is personally willing to deem the psyker blameless. It seems an unlikely form of suicide.

Perhaps one of the five guardsmen could have slipped the woman the rock on the way to the interrogation room. It is possible.

It doesn’t have to be the commissar who didn’t shoot the psyker. Who barely got any useful information out of the traitor before the incident. Who suggested that they go to region 27G, where nothing but children waited for them.

Who was not present during the bloody confrontation in the ravine.

“I shall ask her to come over tomorrow,” Lynch smiles warmly at her, as fake as her own smiles for certain. “And I’ll see what I can do about temporarily putting a stop to sending any psykers to the mines, until we have investigated this. Now, if there isn’t anything else…?”

“No, sir,” she returns the smile. Sees Jarvis shift awkwardly in the corner of her eye.

“Then I shall bid the two of you a good night, hopefully for the last time tonight,” Lynch says, looks at the dataslate in his hand for a second, holds it out to Jarvis. “Thank you for your assistance. I trust you will keep this safe in case we need it in the future.”

“Yes, commissar. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Another quick smile before he turns and walks away, back to his own bedroom. Holly doubts he will have a peaceful night’s sleep. She, on the other hand, is so relieved that she could probably abandon consciousness within minutes of lying down and closing her eyes. She steps inside the room, closes the door.

“Why do you have that?” she asks Jarvis as he puts the dataslate back into the drawer he produced it from.

“What do you mean?” he looks at her, seems genuinely confused, quickly closes the drawer with a squeak, a thud. “Are you upset?”

“No,” Holly says, not certain why he would think so

“I just… wanted a keepsake, I guess,” Jarvis clears his throat. “I didn’t think the commissar would catch me with it, but here we are.”

“You should probably know that he went straight here to ask you for it when I said I needed to review the footage.”

“Alright, well, I have learnt my lesson regarding appropriating regimental equipment not intended for personal use, which is that the commissar expects and wants me to,” he says, throws his shirt onto his side of the dresser where the rest of his clothes are abandoned. Not folded, but consistently placed rather than left on the floor. She appreciates the compromise, that she never had to ask.

Holly watches him as he begins to unbutton his pants. A familiar sight by now, and yet. She steps closer, kisses his burned shoulder, wraps her arms around his. Looks up at him, smiles. Wishes she had the words to tell him that the scars are of no consequence without being dismissive.

“Sorry for running out like that,” she says instead.

“That’s alright,” he says, but slowly, signaling that everything isn’t. She should have talked to Lynch earlier, asked him to stop calling her Holly. It feels silly to her, but evidently it bothers him. “The whole mineral thing,” Jarvis says instead, throwing her for a loop. “Is that a new thing you’ve been thinking about or…?”

“No,” she says, reluctantly lets go of him as he slowly pulls away. “It’s been on my mind for a long time. It feels nice to finally have a possible explanation for what is going on.”

He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t look at her. She can see the muscles in his jaw working for a brief moment.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She hesitates at that. In her mind the topic has been so entangled with her work for the Inquisition that sharing her concerns had seemed like saying too much. And yet. Evidently she could have told him, as if it was a curiosity. As if it was just an observation, not a topic that she kept returning to over and over, a question to which she was in desperate need of an answer.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” she hears herself say. Knows those are the wrong words the moment they pass her lips.

He steps away from her before he speaks again, one, two steps, towards the bed. 

“Do you get the impression that I don’t give a shit about what you have to say?” he snaps at her. It is the first time he’s raised his voice at her since he pulled her from the river.

“No,” she admits. He does listen when she speaks. Remembers most of what she tells him. Asks questions to learn more.

“No, because I fucking do. I’m your damn boyfriend and I’d fucking appreciate it if you told me about shit that is bothering you, rather than just running to Lynch with it.”

Holly watches him quietly, still. His body language is angry, but he’s crossed the room, put the bed between them. Not threatening. More bark than bite. Truth be told she isn’t scared of him. Knows he won’t hurt her. Also knows that she could take him if it came to it, even if he is bigger than her. His hand-to-hand combat style is rudimentary.

She should say something, of course, but she can’t find the words. Wants to say that she had to tell Lynch, because how else was she to protect the psykers, but that feels like the wrong thing to say as well. Instead she stands silent, watches him. He looks like he wants to hit the bedframe for a moment but thinks better of it. Sits down hard instead, the bed creaking a little, his back turned to her.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence she steps forward, sits down on the other side of the too large bed, turns towards him. Wishes she were better at this.

“I’m sorry. I… I’m not very good at sharing,” Holly tells him, though that has been evident for a long while. “It goes against my training. I will try to do better, but… I don’t think I will ever be like Wechsler.”

“I don’t want you to be like her,” he sighs, rubs his face. Sounds less angry, more sad, maybe frustrated. “But if something matters to you, then it matters to me. I could’ve told you about the headaches earlier if I’d known. I know I’m not as smart as the commissar and I might not be able to solve whatever is troubling you, but at least I can listen.”

She crawls up on the bed, closer to him, puts her hands on his broad shoulders. When he doesn’t pull away she leans in, slide her arms around him, presses her face against his neck. He still doesn’t move. Holly is still for a little while, tries to think of what to say and how to say it. Considers Lynch, Jarvis, herself. Knows the frustration of finding yourself lacking. Also knows that Jarvis is wrong.

“I think,” she says slowly, cautiously. “I think there are different kinds of intelligence. I like your kind better.”

His sigh is like a wave pushing her up and then down again. A hand reaches up, presses hers closer to his chest. It seems like she managed to find something akin to the right words in the end, at least.

They are quiet when they finish undressing once more, turn the lights off. For a while she is uncertain if all is forgiven, if resentment lingers, but he scoots closer to the middle of the bed where she’s waiting, reaches out to hold her in his arms as soon as she’s pulled the covers over them.

“I’m sorry for raising my voice,” Jarvis says, sounds wary. As if something is still bothering him. The dark is not meant for serious conversations, but the light switch is far away, she doesn’t want to get out of bed, doesn’t want to leave his side. Perhaps it is a conversation for another night.

Holly reaches up, strokes his face in the dark.

“It will be better in the morning,” she says, echoing her mother’s words. Things rarely were, but it was a comfortable lie. It is evident that Jarvis doesn’t believe her, sighs. Kisses her goodnight, holds her close as if he is afraid that she will disappear if eases his grip. It becomes a little uncomfortable as time goes on, but she stays.

It is not better in the morning. Holly barely has time to finish breakfast before they are alerted that commissar Zima has arrived. The other woman walks in with her head held high and a wooden box in her arms. The lack of snow on her coat suggests fine weather outside for once. There is no greeting, only a frosty silence and an aggressive thud as she puts down the box on the not yet cleared dining room table.

“I see you got my message,” Lynch smiles, gets only a dark look in return.

There is a distinct air of hostility as the blonde commissar unpacks the box. If she has an opinion about Holly eating at the same table as Lynch, then she keeps it to herself. Probably already knew. Neatly folded clothes with dried bloodstains, private trinkets, even a small knife carved with unfamiliar initials are laid before them. The property of the deceased traitor.

“Is that what you were looking for?” she asks, gesturing at the spread of items. Both Lynch and Holly’s eyes are firmly on the off-white rock, half the size of Holly’s fist. The blood that once covered it has been cleaned off, but it looks to be the right size and shape to be the rock from the recording. 

“Yes,” he says, looks at Holly.

She reaches out, picks up the rock, turns it over in her hand. Senses nothing wrong with it, but then she wouldn’t. It looks like milk mixed with water frozen solid, rough and uneven in shape, a few sharp edges. She brings it close to her face, sniffs it. It smells like mildew, like damp clothes left for too long. It is indeed a piece of the locally produced mineral.

“Are you storing that somewhere secure?” Lynch asks.

“Of course I am, what do you take me for?” the blonde commissar glares at him.

“Somewhere well away from people,” he adds. The other woman eyes him with no small amount of suspicion. Clearly expects a jab of some sort. When none seems forthcoming, she deigns to reply.

“I can have that arranged.”

“What is this?” Holly asks, looks at the blonde commissar. Already knows that Lynch has no idea.

“The mineral that they mine here.” The reply is curt, but direct, spoken with eye contact. Her behavior has changed, at least in regard to Holly.

“Yes, but _what_ is it?”

The other commissar hesitates, looks at the rock, over at Lynch. He shrugs.

“My briefing didn’t include that,” he tells her.

“Neither did mine,” she admits, with noticeable reluctance. Looks at Holly, jaw clenched, lips pressed together, grimaces before she speaks again. “They used to mine silver and copper here, up until a decade ago. The old mines are closed, flooded, or used for housing but there are records that several of the veins are still good. There is also some overlap. Three of the mines have produced both copper and this, at least for a time. I gather that is how they hit upon whatever that is and were instructed to focus on the new find instead.”

Holly nods slowly, turns the rock over in her hand. It takes on an iridescent hue under the dining room lamps. Not only has the other commissar’s behavior changed, she is more forthcoming with information than Holly thought she would be. Why?

The answer is easy. It is not that she has overcome her disdain of what Holly is, or that she wants to play nice with Lynch. The blonde commissar knows, or at least suspects, that Holly is who she is. Lynch could whinge a full day about everything that he dislikes about Zima, but Holly is certain that her intelligence is not something that would come up. He might have let the Inquisition comment pass, believed her excuse, but his fellow commissar here evidently has not.

“Bleak thinks that the mineral is behind the mutations,” Lynch tells the blonde commissar, watches her for a reaction. The other woman nods slowly while looking at Holly. She is being sized up, she knows. The natural dislike of her is still there, but it is tempered with something. Caution, perhaps. Suspicion? Deception? “Don’t you think it’s strange that they wouldn’t even tell us what that is?”

“Yes,” she looks him dead in the eyes. There is a pointed pause as she looks over at Holly, back at Lynch. “Are you two satisfied? Anything else you want to play with?”

Lynch does not take the bait, Holly has to give him credit for that at least. Merely smiles politely, shakes his head.

“That will be all, Zima.”

“Don’t address me like I’m one of your guard,” she huffs, begins to repackage the box. Holly pushes the rock back towards the blonde commissar, remains quiet.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am,” he grins. Well. At least he held back until they were almost done, for what that is worth. The other woman only glares at him, continues to put away item after item, the rock being placed in the middle, Holly notes. Approves. The more padding the better.

“Do us all a favor and don’t be late for the meeting,” she says as she secures the lid.

“Again, I do _not_ control the warp and if my ship was a couple of days delayed that is not-”

The blonde commissar grabs the box, turns around without another word, marches away.

“… a big deal,” Lynch finishes weakly to her back. Sighs as the door closes, the sound of her boots against the floor making it clear that the other commissar is not interested in hearing him out. “Well. What do you think?”

“About what?” Holly looks at him, blinks. Remembers to shift her weight, rub her arm as if she has an itch underneath the layers of cloth. Seem alive.

“Zima, the rock.”

“I don’t know,” she admits. He is better at reading people than she is, knows the other commissar better too. “I know she doesn’t like you.”

“Really?” he raises an eyebrow, smiles as if she’s just told a funny joke. Holly returns the smile, offers a small shrug.

“The rock is right. Fits the theory,” she tries. “I don’t suppose there are any other leads regarding the thefts?”

Under normal circumstances, under a different superior, she would have been reprimanded for even suggesting it was information she should have. She is here as a bodyguard, nothing more. Lynch merely sighs deeply. That is a “no”, then.

Someone should know. Someone should have said something by now. She doesn’t doubt that there are more efforts being made than she is privy to. And yet there is nothing. Concerning. Either the enemy is laying low, or dangerous things are happening in the shadows where they have yet to shine a light.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Lynch says, pushing a chair back into place. “Can you sense corruption in people?”

“No, sir,” she smiles, hopes she gets it right, friendly but apologetic. It gets complicated when nuances are required. Turns her head to the side to disguise any mistake, as if looking at the room, turns back to him. “A psyker might be able to pick up something while reading a person’s mind.”

“Except if people are carrying chunks of the mineral around, having them prodding about would be risky.”

He’s evidently thought about it, his inclination to keep casualties low a credit to his character but also a hindrance.

“I imagine commissar Zima would suggest the psyker to be accompanied by someone who could be trusted to put them down if anything were to go wrong,” Holly points out. It is not an ideal solution but sitting on their hands has gotten them nowhere.

“I imagine Zima is a hair’s breadth away from resorting to decimation to get people to talk,” he sighs, looks up at the ceiling as if there are answers to be had there.

“I have been told that commissars are supposed to be scarier than the enemy.”

“A good commissar is a living commissar,” Lynch grimaces. “If you are what pushes people over the edge into mutiny, you’re not doing a very good job and your next one will be fertilizing whatever ditch they dump your remains in.”

Holly isn’t sure what how to respond to that, opts for a gentle smile, shifting her weight to her right foot. It sounds like dangerous words to her, words a commissar shouldn’t say aloud. Words that whisper of a lack of conviction, a reason for superiors to take a closer look. Reeducation, if you are very lucky.

“I don’t suppose I could send you around with a psyker?”

“I fear my very presence would be counterproductive.”

“Mm,” he sighs deeply at that, tired, weary, not angry, at least not with her. “Well, we better get moving. Wouldn’t want to give her another reason to call me tardy.”

Holly follows him to the hallway, gathers her coat, steps out into the crisp morning air. No snow this time, just a sharp cold that stings your nostrils as you breathe in. She walks two steps behind Lynch like a dutiful shadow, detaches only once they reach the double doors of the meeting room, takes her place outside of them.

The meeting drags on until lunch when the doors finally open, irritation wafting off the people who step outside. Holly remains still, Lynch has neither summoned her nor left the room, so she waits. She sees him standing by the large table together with the colonel with her salt and pepper hair. The old commissar gives Holly a smile as he passes her. She returns it dutifully, only briefly looks away from the exchange inside the meeting room.

“With all due respect, you are overreacting,” the colonel tells Lynch. “And there is not enough evidence to warrant…”

The woman grows quiet, seems to suddenly realize that the doors are open, their conversation easily overheard. Holly meets her eyes, doesn’t move, acts as if she is seeing nothing. As if she is an empty shell. There is a flush to Lynch’s cheeks, noticeable even from this distance, a stiffness to his shoulders.

“I have heard your concerns, colonel,” he says curtly. “And I will take them into consideration going forward.”

Going forward, by all appearances, involves stomping out of the building in a particularly foul mood. On their way back to their living quarters he tells her that command does not have as much faith in her as he does. The words suggest some degree of diplomacy, but the tone condemnation.

During lunch she learns that while there is going to be a hold on sending psykers to the mines, it is very much a temporary arrangement. The word of an untouchable is simply not enough.

“Obviously, we’re going to look into this,” Lynch assures her, stabs the grox stake on his plate with his fork. “They think that you are trying to protect Eade, mind you.”

“I’m trying to protect the psykers,” she says, a little offended.

“I know that. They first suggested that it was a matter of cowardly guardsmen doing everything they could to get out of doing their duty.”

Holly pauses at that, glass half-way to her lips. There is an implication there, not a kind one. A reminder of what she really is. How other people truly see her. How no one in their right mind would choose to be with someone like her if they didn’t have an ulterior motive.

“I told them that they wouldn’t say that if they saw how he looks at you,” he goes on, confirming her suspicions. Using perhaps a little bit too much force to cut his food, scratches the plate unpleasantly. Doesn’t apologize. “So then, of course, it had to be you. Oswick spoke me as if I was a damn child. She might be twenty years my senior, but for fuck’s sake.”

Cursing. He must be very upset. It usually only slips out when the volume increases.

“Did commissar Zima crack a smile?” she asks, watches him look up at her, is rewarded with a brief smile. It seems genuine, seems to make its way onto his face despite his efforts to be serious.

“If she were physically capable of it, that would have been the time for sure.”

Two hours past noon marks the start of Lynch’s official new initiative – a period of mandatory physicals for the whole regiment. No explanation is given to the guardsmen, none is required. A room in the overcrowded hospital is cleared for the purpose, three doctors instructed to abandon patients in favor of the new task at hand. The change is disruptive to routines, but routines have proven ineffective in dealing with the issue at hand.

Worn sheets of blue cloth separate the room into four sections, provides some degree of privacy for the procedure. Three fairly evenly sized areas for the doctors to work, one long, narrow strip with two uncomfortable chairs for her and Lynch. They have a clear view of the open doorway, outside of which is a hallway that serves as a cramped waiting room. Guardsmen are called in, looked over by the doctors, Lynch checks them off a list. It feels like busy work, the task of a lesser clerk, but Holly doesn’t object. Waits patiently as men and women walk in, are assigned a doctor, disappear behind the cloth.

All clear, all clear, all clear.

The first day lulls them into a false sense of security. People are healthy, unchanged. A few have minor health issues noted down, instructed to have them addressed at a later date. A handful of women have their contraceptive implants replaced, a quick and easy procedure.

As the first names are called on the second day it begins to feel excessive. Lunch is waiting around the corner when Holly realizes that this was the right call after all. A young man with a whispy moustache she has seen before shuffles in, shoulders slumped, shivering despite the hospital building being insulated, significantly warmer than the barracks.

It isn’t the smell, though it is noticeable when he gets close, but the way he moves, as if he wants to disappear, excuse himself into nonexistence. Lynch sees it too, doesn’t comment.

“Trooper Benjamin Din?” he repeats.

“Yes, commissar,” the boy practically sniffles.

“Middle.”

He bobs his head, plods over, greets the balding doctor with a few mumbled words, pulls the cloth shut. Disappears from view. Holly glances at Lynch, he nods, both unbuckle the clasp securing their sidearms in their holsters. There is no sign of a struggle, only the now familiar sounds of a guardsman undressing. Muffled apologies.

Half a minute passes before they hear a horrified squeal. When the doctor summons them with a great urgency neither is surprised. They step past the pale blue cloth, see the pile of clothes on a bench. The doctor is pressed up against the wall, as far away from the undressed guardsman as he possibly can get. There is nothing wrong that they can tell and they can see most of him, as he is standing before them in only his underwear.

“T-there’s… there’s a, a…”

The doctor has lost his tongue, but gestures at the young man whose eyes are firmly on the floor. He turns around when instructed, revealing a second misshapen face protruding from his back.

“I take it this is new,” Lynch says, makes a note on his dataslate. Trusts her to protect him should the guardsman lash out.

“Y-yes,” he admits. “It, it started coupla weeks ago.”

“Ah. And that is why you have been avoiding the showers?” The young man nods. “Mhm. Any other changes?”

“No, commissar. I… Except,” he takes a deep breath. “It… Sometimes I can feel it move, sir.”

Lynch grimaces at that, quickly forces his face back to a neutral emotionless state. Clears his throat.

“What do you mean move?”

“The jaw, like it’s… it’s tryna talk or something.”

The doctor has certainly grown a few shades paler, looks ready to bolt at the slightest sign of anything unnatural moving. Lynch hesitates, evidently torn. His training provides him with clear directions, yet his bolt pistol remains holstered.

“Well!” he declares. “I will have further questions for you, but I think we both rather have you clothed for that.”

No blood splatters upon the hospital floor. The young man is allowed to dress, is escorted to a cell. Marked down as evidence. The middle section of the room is wiped down thoroughly, quickly begins to reek of bleach. Physicals continue.

It is only a couple of hours later when a woman Holly’s age enters. Broad and muscular, looks like she could throw a man over her shoulder and keep running if need be. Doesn’t look worried until she steps further into the room, her pace slows to a complete stop, her eyes start darting across the room, a frown forming on her face.

“Trooper Matilda Harlow?” Lynch asks, seems confused at her behavior.

Holly looks at the woman, eyes the distance between them. Releases her aura without warning, pushing it as far as it can go, lets it consume the room, hears yelps of surprise from guardsmen and doctors alike. Lynch flinches, but the guardswoman stumbles, staggers, almost as pale as the snow that covers every building at the base. She places a hand against the wall to stabilize herself, throws up her partially digested lunch.

Holly steps forward as the woman’s body convulses. Pulls back her aura again as she does so, her goal is not to hurt her, just to confirm. Stops three meters away from the guardswoman, knows closer is going to be an issue no matter how hard she pulls back her aura.

“How long have you heard the voices?”

The wide-eyed horror on the woman’s face, some sick still smudged on her lips, confirms what she already knows. Lynch isn’t slow, gets to his feet, understands without her needing to clarify. Psyker.

“I don’t listen to it, I swear,” she says it with surprising firmness.

“How long?” Holly repeats.

The woman glances between her and Lynch, his hand on the bolt pistol.

“Bit over a month,” she confesses, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Squints at Holly as if she is looking directly into a glaring sun. “I didn’t think it was anything first. But I’ve done everything right, no witchy stuff or anything, I swear.”

Everything but tell the commissar, of course. Still, the woman seems genuine, appears to be strong-willed, determined to do right. Under normal circumstances Holly would suggest leniency, would argue confinement until she can be gathered by a Black Ship or at least a ship suited to bring the woman to a less dangerous planet to wait for one. Perhaps offer to go with her on such a journey, ensure that she remains safe from her own powers and those that would use them as she travels through the warp.

These are not normal circumstances. Even the sanctioned psykers are liabilities, one only recently awakened cannot hope to keep their newfound powers under control should push come to shove.

Holly glances at Lynch, not because she truthfully is of the opinion that his authority supersedes hers in this instance, but because she has a façade to uphold. He nods, sighs. She draws her bolt pistol, fires. Another yelp from one of the examination sections, a muffled chorus of curses from the hallway.

As she looks at the guardswoman’s remains, waits for the orderlies to arrive and remove them, she can’t help but to feel that it is unfortunate. Over a month under these circumstances, no training, still in control. She might have made a good psyker if she had been sent to Terra. And yet, too dangerous to take any chances.

At the end of a long day the other commissars wander in, one after another. News of the prisoner has reached them. None are amused by the findings, not even the old man. One by one they agree that the theory, left vague and unspecified when spoken of in public, seems to hold merit. That Lynch has not overreacted after all. The doctors are informed that the other three regiments will go through the same procedure going forward.

The next day a larger room has been prepared, five doctors wait for them to arrive in the morning. Lynch gives her the dataslate, tells her that she is in charge, that anyone objecting to that can be sent to his office. It is not the usual dataslate. A separate one, containing personnel files and the medical information of the entire regiment. She would be a poor sleeper agent to decline.

“I will do my best, sir,” she tells him, smiles.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I am going to have a nap,” he whispers to her, winks. “If there’s anything,” he adds, gestures to the tiny micro-bead.

“Of course.”

He leaves and she turns to look at the five more or less uncomfortable doctors. Tired, worn. The large number of injured taking their toll. Holly doesn’t smile. Looks at them one by one, nods.

“Anything strange, out of the ordinary, slightest bit suspicious,” she says. “Let me know. I will deal with it,” she pauses, sees that they are still nervous. Relents. Offers them a smile. “Don’t worry. This is what the Emperor made me for.”

Doesn’t wait for a response, turns around, walks towards the open double doors, to the hallway full of waiting guardsmen. Regular humans. Except for today – today they are psykers. Today she is in charge.

“Lieutenant Kay Wickham, first from the door,” she says firmly, clearly. “Trooper Makena Sting, second section from the door. Trooper Abigail Xu, third. Corporal Mafalda Wechsler, fourth. Trooper Asher Jones, fifth.”

While she waits for the doctors to go over their assigned patients Holly reads their files. There are notes of previous punishments, reoccurring issues, recommendations, medical history. Jarvis’ record has more than one mention of brawling, most are from two years ago, when the 472nd became a regiment. A recent comment in the medical file stands out though. Short, yet significant.

“Priority for treatment.”

It was added to the file a little more than two months ago. After the return from the ravine.

“I can, of course, not give your guardsman special treatment,” Lynch had told her. She remembers it clearly. And yet.

It had been a test. She had known that then too, knew that she had passed. Didn’t realize that passing would mean a reward. Is it a reward if you are never told? It feels like it. Holly decides then and there that Lynch can call her whatever he likes. Tells Jarvis as much in the evening. He grumbles, so she tells him the truth.

“You read my record?” he asks, gets caught up on insignificant details.

“I read a lot of people’s records?” she looks at him, a little unsure now. “I have nothing else to do while I wait.”

“That’s… a bit…” he trails off. Seems uncertain yet displeased.

Too much honesty, she concludes, apologizes. Promises not to do it again. Assures him that she wasn’t looking for anything specific, just for something to occupy her mind. It is almost the truth.

If he is upset with her it passes quickly enough. Jarvis cuddles with her, talks about the mission he’s leaving for in the morning, tells her that he’ll miss her. She’ll miss him too, she assures him, means it.

“The tower guards don’t like it when you leave,” she informs him, traces the shape of his arm muscles as they lie in bed together.

“What?”

“Well,” she leans in, touches the tip of his nose with hers. “Apparently there is a restless woman running around on the roofs, making them very nervous.”

He snorts at that, kisses her.

“There was a formal request that Lynch provide me with a substitute while you’re away, paperwork and all,” she tells him. Lynch had thought the request was funny, yet Jarvis doesn’t laugh, doesn’t chuckle. She feels his fingers brush her cheekbone gently, feels the mood shift again. “I think you should get assigned tasks at the base instead.”

“That would be nice,” he agrees, but still there is no humor there. She was going to suggest that he should fuck her so thoroughly that she’ll be too tired to climb a single building while he’s away, but it is clear that he isn’t in the mood for such things.

She wants to ask him what she did wrong but doesn’t want to have another fight. Not now, not right before he leaves. Instead she scoots down a little, snuggles closer, gives his ass a pat under the sheets, kisses his chest.

“Come back to me?” she asks.

“I’ll do my best,” he promises her, reaches up, scratches her head. That is all she can really ask for, she supposes. It won’t be for very long at least, not very far. Shouldn’t be very dangerous. No rivers to cross, no forests, no mines. She still worries.

The last members of the 472nd required to comply with Lynch’s orders are those still being treated at the hospital. Some are wheeled down to the room, others are too poorly for that, require Holly to bring a doctor and come to them. It is the first time she sees the true extent of the overcrowding, the injured who seem to never get better. Stubborn infections, wounds that fail to heal, the numbers succumbed to severe pneumonia.

“Sergeant Jacinto Ness?” she asks a man she has seen before. He was pale then, a sickly grey now. Still no legs.

“Yes,” he manages, voice weak, lips dry, cracked.

“Mandatory physical. Commissar Lynch’s orders.”

Even if he wanted to refuse, he doesn’t have the strength to object. Truth be told Holly is surprised that he is still here. Had expected the injured from the ravine to either have healed enough to return to service in some capacity or died by now. Didn’t expect so many of them to still be here, lingering, clinging to life with so little improvement to show for all the time that has passed.

There are almost a dozen prayer seals attached to his bandages like grim ribbons. The tall Hospitaller huffs as she removes it all, revealing partially healed stumps. No sign of gangrene, no swelling, yet the stitches look raw, fresh. The skin is frayed as if the stitches have been redone perhaps more than once, the damage refusing to heal. The sister stands by, arms crossed, as the doctor look the man over.

“If there was any sign of mutation, I would have dealt with it already,” she tells Holly. Her tone is sharp, irritated, but it is easy to forgive that and much more. “He wouldn’t be the first.”

“Commissar’s orders,” she tells the other woman who doesn’t as much as turn her dark eyes towards her. Waits a little, shifts her weight, looks up at her again. “Sister Sabrine, I wanted to thank you.”

“Hm?” That catches her attention, though only barely.

“You removed shrapnel from sergeant Eade’s stomach,” Holly clarifies. “The stiches were very neat. Healed well.”

There is a small twitch in the corner of the Hospitaller’s mouth, a suppressed smile, a touch of pride.

“Good to hear,” she says.

And it is, Holly doesn’t doubt that as they stand in the overcrowded room. The beds are full, a number of men and women lying on sheets on the floor. The smell of flesh, sweat, vomit, blood. It must feel like a personal failure, not being able to help them.

“Will you bring a message to commissar Lynch from me?” she asks, her eyes like deep wells, bottomless, hard, lovely. 

“Of course.”

“Tell him to pull whatever strings necessary, burn as many bridges as it takes, but get a supplementary medical supply shipment to us. We are doing the best we can with what we have, but…” she grows quiet, watches the room, the misery that lay sprawled before them.

Holly tells Lynch over lunch, returns the dataslate to him, her task completed. He hums noncommittally as he looks over her notes. Three awakened psykers. Eight mutations, six of which are minor, easily hidden. Allows for lenience for their companions who might genuinely not have noticed. Lynch grumbles and marks another seven names down for harboring someone touched by the warp. Damned by association. The close-knit small groupings within the 472nd proving a security risk.

“I had hoped that encouraging them to take on the training of individual rookies would have led to a less insular attitude,” he grumbles.

Holly has heard of the training, of course. Heavier backpacks, longer laps, more pushups, longer hours, harsher punishments. A test of character, not for the rookies but the haphazardly mixed veterans. Roth has told her of how she threw up daily during training, collapsed repeatedly, cried herself to sleep. Sweet, tiny Roth, then two years younger and malnourished, who Lynch to this day refers to as the runt of the litter. It hadn’t taken a full week before the 116th had adopted her, Jarvis requesting to take over her training. Had unwittingly shown Lynch that they were willing to step up, wanted to integrate with their new regiment, understood that they were only as strong as the weakest link.

At least, that is how Lynch talks of it. Seems pleased with the end result. Holly refrains from mentioning that it was pity that motivated them. Knows that Jarvis was genuinely worried that the girl wouldn’t survive the training. Isn’t certain if it matters.

“To be fair,” she points out. “Four of the affected were rookies.”

“There is no reason for you to lash out at me like that, Holly,” he harrumphs, gives her a crooked smile to let her know he’s only joking. She returns it readily enough.

“You did send my friends and boyfriend out into the freezing cold,” she points out.

“Someone has to go out there.”

“And you don’t play favorites.”

“Exactly,” he says as if this is self-evident, clearly unaware that she knows what he wrote in Jarvis’ medical file. She chooses to change the topic, lets him have the illusion of keeping secrets from her.

“How did the meeting go?” she asks instead.

She might only just have finished her investigation of the 472nd regiment, but the early numbers were concerning enough. Left command rightfully suspicious of the mineral’s influence even on ordinary guardsmen. Lynch, of course, chose to argue his case again. Seems to thrive on the conflict.

“Colonel Oswick refuses to hear anything about any plan that endangers the mines,” he sighs. “As if getting them back in working order is a priority compared to the locals inviting daemons whenever we as much look in the direction of something that they want to keep to themselves. Or our own getting corrupted by merely entering the mines.”

He seems to forget his food while he talks, gesturing with his hands, his glass, his cutlery. Holly watches while she eats, knows he doesn’t mind. They will be here all day if she stops eating just because he’s working up some steam.

“Even Zima was fine with flooding the mines. You’d think using the natural resources and either drowning or flushing out the remaining locals would be a reasonable plan, but no, not now that winter is around the corner,” he throws his hands up, knife and fork abandoned on the table first, mercifully. “The cold water might do irreparable damage, especially if it freezes. Freezes! At most it’s going to be a couple of feet of ice.”

Holly would be lying if she said she wasn’t comforted by how genuinely outraged Lynch is at the idea of needlessly exposing the guardsmen to the mineral now that they have good reason to suspect it to be dangerous. Likes him better when he isn’t wearing his mask.

“What of commissar Varela and Kartal?” she asks. Wants to reach out, squeeze his shoulder. Knows better now.

He looks up at her, a tired, almost empty stare. They are the same age, but in that moment he looks older than Jarvis with his greying temples and deep lines, older by at least a decade.

“Sorry, was that a foolish question?” Holly smiles a little, frowns, tilts her head to the side.

“There’s a reason why Kartal’s men are dropping like flies, and it’s not the enemy,” he mutters. “Varela forgets that there is a difference between heroic sacrifices and needless ones. At least she’s willing to hold back on deploying the psykers for the foreseeable future.”

He pauses, reaches out to grab his nearly empty glass, finishes it. Looks at the glass for a moment before putting it down again.

“Holly?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

While it is true that he’s started to rely on her more, trusts her judgment when she voices her concerns, she still didn’t expect him to say anything about it. She looks down, smiles, almost more for herself than for his sake.

“I’m glad I’m here too.”

In more ways than she can describe, truth be told. It is draining, contorting herself for Lynch, but she is getting better at it. No, she has gotten good at it. The standard movements and expressions can be performed at a passable level from muscle memory, she just needs to discern when they are appropriate, expected, put effort into the transitions. It won’t hide what she is in the long run, but the experience is providing her with the tools to better disguise her shortcomings for brief periods of time. Not unlike how the evenings socializing with Wechsler and, recently, some of the Vostroyan guardswomen leave her drained but perhaps with a little better understanding of social interactions. It leaves her feeling different and lost, yes, but also welcomed, appreciated.

It is more than she has ever had before.

The tall commissar inspects the results of the physicals the next morning, her own regiment next in line. Is unusually quiet as she goes over the records. No guards waiting in the hallway just yet.

“I would like you to continue the investigation, Bleak,” she says, too loudly for standing only a meter and a half away. Her right sleeve has been pinned to her shoulder. She had a prosthesis for a couple of weeks, yet it seems to have malfunctioned, been removed. “If you are willing, and Lynch can spare you.”

She accepts, of course. Lynch allows it. Seems genuinely happy that the other commissars are coming around to her presence, start to see the advantages of having an untouchable around. The old commissar happily burdens her with his all-male regiment as well, or what remains of it. Calls her useful. She supposes he means it as a compliment. The blonde commissar requests her presence but leaves a thin woman wearing thick goggles and frazzled scribe robes in charge of the dataslate. Doesn’t trust her. Holly accepts regardless.

It takes weeks. It is tedious, it doesn’t improve the guardsmen’s opinion of her, it pays off. Another psyker is discovered among the 89th. The 67th, 89th, and 201st producing a total of seven mutants together. The 472nd are unsurprisingly the worst affected. They have been given mine duty more frequently than the other regiments.

Four psykers, fifteen mutants. Twenty-six executions, nineteen bodies to be burned. The young man with the thin moustache cries before it is his turn. Holly stands by, watches. Immobile, unresponsive, for all appearances uncaring.

It has to be done.

It is fine.

She is fine.

She is the useful kind of subhuman after all.


	11. Recuperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Jarvis has very conflicting feelings about absolutely everything.  
> And no, I will not write a companion piece to go with this chapter.

During the weeks Holly presides over the mandatory physicals the weather becomes increasingly unpleasant. Heavy snow and sleet take turns pelting anyone who dares to set foot outside. Everything freezes during the night, nothing seems to melt during the day, the sun stays hidden behind thick grey clouds more often than not. 

The first week of overseeing the physicals is fine. Draining, but not overwhelming. As the faces of the guardsmen become a blur, however, she starts to miss her evenings with Lynch, her monotonous days trailing after him, their one-sided conversations. She starts to sleep poorly, struggles to fall asleep, tosses and turns. Wakes up wrapped around Jarvis more nights than not, clings to his pillow when he is not there. When he asks what is wrong, if she is having nightmares, she has to admit that she doesn’t know. There is an unease, an internal tenseness that remains, lingers, ferments, though she cannot say why. She has everything she could ever think to ask for, more than she has ever dared dream of. And yet, and yet, and yet.

Before she has finished looking over the blonde commissar’s regiment her reserves have depleted, she has no energy left for Lynch, for Jarvis. Needs silence, darkness, isolation. Struggles through the day, falters during the evening. Even after the task is done, she feels like she’s barely managing to keep up with Lynch during the day, despite their uneventful routine.

Her limbs grow heavy, her mind sluggish. She tries to hold it together, tries to move naturally, be ready to act alive if Lynch turns to talk to her. Yet frequently has to excuse herself, instead wandering their living quarters, tidies up unseen. Cleans Lynch’s equipment even though she is fairly certain he has already done so. Inspects rooms he is not in, though she is already intimately familiar with the layout of their quarters. Discovers no signs of intrusion, bugs, explosives. 

If her unusual behavior bothers Lynch then he keeps his opinion to himself. She isn’t sure if he can tell that she’s tired, worn out not physically but mentally, if that is why he spends more time doing paperwork late in the evening. Doesn’t engage in as many conversations with her. Allows her to retreat to her and Jarvis’ bedroom earlier than usual. It might be a coincidence, but Holly appreciates it all the same.

The week that follows exists in patches and blurs, her days only coming back into focus once she begins to sleep through the night again. There is no denying that she has been a poor girlfriend, not a particularly good bodyguard either, but she is getting better. Her batteries are slowly recharging, the weariness easing its grip on her. Somehow neither of the men seem to resent this sudden weakness.

Holly sits on the hard couch in Lynch’s office while he reads, writes, curses under his breath. She has already tidied up in his bedroom, the dining room, the common room, the antechamber. Is out of distractions and evening is not yet here, though her limbs are growing a little heavy, tells her that she needs to rest. With nothing left to do Holly excuses herself, goes to the drink cabinet, takes out a glass and a carafe. Brings it to the office. Lynch hasn’t asked her to do so, perhaps it is a little early, but she wants to feel like she is useful, wants to apologize for her inadequacies.

“Thank you, Holly,” he says, only looking up briefly to watch her pour the honey colored liquid. “No glass for yourself?”

“Not tonight, sir,” she says gently, puts the cap back on the carafe.

“Mm,” he acknowledges that she has spoken but barely more than that. “They’re going to start insulating the barracks in a day or two. Hopefully they’ll finish before the cold truly sets in.”

“That is good,” Holly smiles softly. Of course, she already knew. The small vessel with supplementary materials that arrived three days ago, the busy evenings, two recent fairly cordial conversations with the enormous quartermaster, Jarvis mentioning people measuring the insides of barrack 19. Still, she obliges him. Their evenings are always cut short by Jarvis, when he isn’t sent off on a scouting mission or other, and now even more so by her inexplicable exhaustion. She doesn’t mind putting in a little bit of extra effort for Lynch, provides him with the attentive audience he craves. He has been kind to her, in his own way.

“Provided off-planet communication doesn’t break down completely, we should be able to get through the month,” he says with mock cheerfulness, saluting her with the glass.

She had not realized it was quite that dire a situation, though admittedly she has little insight in how serious the winters get on Eden 39. Her calculations prior to the recent delivery had given them three months, based on the state of their supplies. They are bleeding medicine and rations into the void, at a higher rate than expected. The few prostheses available keep malfunctioning, need to be replaced with parts that they don’t have. Small recently got fitted with his second hand, the first one having broken down one finger at a time in rapid succession. Abnormal complications. Someone is still working with the enemy.

“No confirmation on the medicine?” she asks. They have been eating new kinds of vegetables since the delivery, so the food issue should have been addressed.

“None, and I’ve tried five different contacts.”

Communication to the rest of the galaxy is compromised then. At this point she isn’t surprised; doubts Lynch is either. He looks resigned. Evidently understands the danger, especially on a planet with no local food production. Fuel, blankets, building materials, and food have made it through. Important, yes, but no medicine.

“Sir, write another message, to anyone. Don’t mention a request for medication or anything of the sort.”

He blinks once, twice, seems confused.

“Find a way to include the numbers thirty,” she says, trying to remember the codes again, “sixteen and five, in that order. No other numbers.”

Lynch looks at her, as if he sees her for the first time. As if he only now realizes that outgoing communication is being monitored by her people. As if he suddenly doubts her.

“Thirty, sixteen, five?” he repeats. “What does that mean?”

“It means we will know if our messages are making it off the planet in the first place,” she says. “If they don’t, we know to focus our attention on the navy’s Astropath. If the message is sent, we’ll get a delivery even if someone is actively sabotaging requests for medical supplies.”

He is quiet for a little while, writing down the figures, seems to hesitate before speaking again. A novelty.

“Do you usually send codes to your superior?”

“I haven’t sent a single message in my time here, sir,” Holly smiles softly to take the edge off his worries. “But I understand if you wish to look at the records to confirm it.”

“No, that is quite alright,” Lynch smiles in return. She isn’t quite sure if he is lying or not. Doesn’t matter. It is the truth. If anything, she hopes that he looks into it, confirms it with his own two eyes. Some caution would do him good.

“I’ll leave you to it, sir,” she says, as gently and kindly as she can. A request to cut the day short, with room for a refusal. She smiles, warm and friendly. Head slightly tilted, hip angled, weight unevenly distributed, hands gently grasped in front of her. He nods slowly, evidently lost in thought, sips his drink.

“Thank you, Holly. Give your guardsman my regards when he arrives.”

“I will,” she says, but she won’t. He is being polite. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Holly.”

She retreats to her and Jarvis’ bedroom, turns on the light, takes off her shoes, hangs up her jacket, lines up her weapons on the dresser. Calls Jarvis and lets him know that he can come over whenever he is ready. Lies down on the bed, enjoys the peaceful silence.

Holly isn’t sure how much time has passed when she hears the sounds of a large individual almost marching towards her room. Hears the familiar creak of a floorboard around the midpoint of the hallway, one that she usually sidesteps herself. Jarvis knocks before he enters, though he knows she is here, despite it being his bedroom as well. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says as he steps in, closes the door. She hums a response, vague but acknowledging. Doesn’t sit up. Remains still, eyes closed, stretched out on the bed. He kisses her forehead, so she opens her eyes, sees that he is holding a battered dataslate in his hand, tosses it gently onto his side of the bed. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Mm.”

“I thought I’d read while you rest,” he tells her as he starts unlacing his shoes. “I’ll be quiet.”

Holly doesn’t answer, closes her eyes again. Releases the control of her body once more, lies perfectly still, her body breathing on its own but otherwise for all appearances a corpse. It is like floating, almost. All the tension seeps away, the only thing reminding her that she is still among the living are the sounds of Jarvis undressing, using the bathroom, putting clothes away. He says he’ll be quiet, but he isn’t. He’s quiet for being Jarvis. Has never learned stealth good and proper. She doesn’t mind. What matters is that he’s doing his best, lets her be, understands.

Her mother always hated it, only allowed her to lie like this in the evening if Holly went to bed early or if she was sick. It doesn’t seem to bother Jarvis. The first evening she apologized, of course, tried to tell him why. That it helps her recharge, gather her thoughts, escape. Is fairly certain she did a poor job at explaining, though it didn’t seem to matter.

“If that’s what you need,” he told her, shrugged his shoulders. “I can wait.”

He didn’t say how long he could wait, admittedly, and she has been resting every evening for the past week. It makes her poor company, she knows, but she needs to recuperate. Had to decline an evening with the 116th three days ago, still too overwhelmed, depleted. Was worried they would take it the wrong way, but Jarvis assured her that Small needs space on the regular too. They had taken it well, seemed to understand. Offered to take Jarvis off her hands if he was being too noisy. It had been lighthearted, a joke that was also a question. She had, of course, declined, seen his expression change in the corner of her eye. A small smile, a brief glance over at her before looking away, seeming to stand up a little straighter, all the while pretending he wasn’t listening.

He sits down on his side of the bed, moves the pillow, scoots up. Still wearing clothes by the sound of it. She opens her right eye, glances over at him. Still wearing pants, undershirt, socks. Much like her then. It takes a moment to find her tongue, her lips, her jaw.

“You don’t have to wear clothes if you don’t want to,” she tells him. Knows he enjoys the privacy their bedroom offers.

“I thought you were trying to relax, not sneak a peek,” he counters, dataslate in his hands. Seems to be in a good mood. Turns his attention back to the dataslate when she doesn’t answer.

He is being considerate, bringing something to read while she rests. He napped a lot earlier during the week, but that only resulted in him waking too early in the morning. She should appreciate it, close her eyes, drift away again, but now she’s curious.

“Is it naughty?” she asks.

“Hah, no,” Jarvis says, smiles at her briefly. “It’s just a story.”

“Mm?”

“Adventure, fiction… just… a story?” he clears his throat.

She’s quiet for a while, eyes open, watches him go back to reading again. Knows that she’s not going to go back to rest, not properly. At any rate, if she has the energy to be interested in a story, she knows she is not exhausted anymore. It takes a moment of nudging her body a little, flexing fingers, wiggling toes, tensing muscles, before she is settled in once more, ready to move again. The process reminds her of trying to pull on a slightly too small glove. She moves her arm sluggishly, reaches over, prods his thigh.

“Can we read it together?”

“Uh, alright,” he says, cheeks flushing a little.

“Are you sure it isn’t naughty?” she asks, watches him glance away from her briefly.

“It’s not, it’s not a pornslate,” he corrects himself.

Holly rolls over to her stomach, heaves herself up on all four, moves closer. Inelegant and jerky, she knows, it always takes a little while before she is fully in charge of her limbs again. Suspects anyone else would flinch, be unsettled, pull away. Jarvis only watches her, seems surprised, holds up the dataslate and spreads his legs as she crawls into his lap, scoots up to lean her back against his chest. She makes a little content hum to let him know she is going to be still now. Feels his lips press against the side of her head as he lowers the dataslate, wraps an arm around her.

“You sure you don’t want to rest?” he asks.

“Mm. Read for me.”

“You know how to read.”

“Yes, but I want to hear your voice,” she tells him, has barely heard it in a week. Has been too tired but missed it all the same. Hears him snort, complies.

Holly watches the text on the screen, barely takes it in, focuses on his voice instead. A preamble for the story itself, setting the scene. An intercepted message translated by a Sister Dialogous, an alien world in danger, a threat looming over nearby Imperial worlds. A desperate request for aid, a chapter of space marines answering the call. After a while he gets to a conversation, the sororitas and the space marine, he keeps reading in the same neutral tone. She nudges him.

“Hm?”

“Do the voices.”

“What?” he laughs, a hint of discomfort there perhaps.

“Go on,” Holly insists. “Do the voices for them.”

“You’re not serious?”

She looks up at him, smiles, clumsily, more pulling at the corners of her mouth, but it is enough. Lets him know that she’s not very serious, but a little. Wiggles her back a little against his chest.

“Alright, alright,” Jarvis clears his throat, evidently a little embarrassed. Is about to start, hesitates, sighs deeply. Looks down at her, looks like he’s about to protest, rolls his eyes. “‘If we don’t act now, they will overrun the planet and while a filthy xeno planet is no great loss, ours are next in line,’” he tries, voice lighter, faster, a little familiar.

“Are you imitating Wechsler?”

“I can only do one woman’s voice!” he exclaims, blushing and defensive, not far from a laugh.

“So, you’re casting Wechsler as the,” Holly grabs his right wrist, pulls the dataslate closer to her, scrolls up, “‘voluptuous sister of the Order Dialogous, with plump pink lips that could make any man g-’”

“You- I- Don’t blame me! You do the sororita’s voice.”

“But I want to listen to you,” she objects, but not very firmly.

“No, no I think you are right,” Jarvis insists. “I think it is entirely inappropriate that I mimic my cousin for a softcore romance.”

“I thought you said it was an adventure?”

“Well. It’s both.”

“And that it wasn’t naughty?”

“Look, just, are we reading this together or not?”

She watches him for a brief moment, reaches over, tilts the dataslate towards her. Scrolls back down to where they were.

“‘If we don’t act now, they will overrun the planet and while a filthy xeno planet is no great loss, ours are next in line,” she reads, takes care to make her voice a little lighter, uses more inflection than comes naturally to her. Turns the dataslate back towards him.

Jarvis hesitates again, looks at the screen, looks at her. Accepts defeat. Lowers his voice and reads the part of the space marine. After a couple of pages he seems to relax, seems to enjoy the activity a little bit more than he is embarrassed by it. There is still a faint blush on his cheeks, an awkward pause whenever they come across a double entendre.

“‘Please, I’m badly injured, I need-’” Holly stops mid-sentence, re-reads the text, looks up at Jarvis. “That is not how you cure Tyranid poisoning.”

“I, I figured,” he says blush intensifying.

“It’s not even close,” she goes on. “I’m sure there are many advantages to the modifications done to the human body to create a space marine, but making their semen-”

“Sweetheart, babe, it’s an excuse to make them fuck.”

“I know that,” she looks up at him again. “It’s just not a very good one. Your ears are turning red.” She watches him squirm, more than a little amused by his embarrassment. Knows it isn’t the content as such, but that she is right there, reading it with him. “I would have had him getting stung and her just… sucking out the poison? But probably not Tyranid poison, that would kill her.”

“Are, hmm,” he leans back, eyes on the ceiling. “Am I being punished?”

“No.”

“It feels like it.”

Holly pushes herself up a little, kisses his flushed cheek.

“I’m having a good time,” she assures him. “But we can stop if you want?”

“No,” he says slowly, as if he isn’t entirely convinced that he means it. “I just… wish that I’d asked for something more commissar approved.”

Holly opens her mouth to say that Lynch has raunchier stuff on his private dataslate than this, but snaps it shut before the first word passes her lips. That would lead to questions as to how she knows, questions to which the answer cannot be that Lynch doesn’t have descriptive titles on his files and she mistook for useful data while snooping. Instead she smiles, shrugs, reaches up to stroke a warm cheek.

“I like it? It’s no masterpiece, but it’s entertaining.”

“Mhm,” he scrolls down a little in the text, skimming it as he goes. “This… is getting rather graphic.”

“I thought you said it was softcore?”

“I did! And I thought it was, I- I rather not have to have a discussion with Coleman as to what counts as…” he pauses, grimaces, beet red.

“What?”

“I just… saw the word guzzling,” Jarvis clears his throat. “I… I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t think it was this… I’m going to kill Coleman.”

“Guzzling what?” she asks innocently enough, knows it’s going to rile him up further. The look he gives her makes it abundantly clear that he knows that she knows, and he is having none of her pretend naivety.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it wasn’t naughty,” he manages.

“I’m really not trying to punish you,” Holly assures him. “But you are a bad liar.”

“Hm.”

“And really cute when you’re embarrassed.”

He sighs deeply, demonstratively, without looking at her, the empty wall apparently a comfort in these trying times. She turns around, gets up on her knees facing him, takes care to smile for him, the movement a little bit more natural this time.

“I’ve seen and heard worse,” she assures him. “And I’m pretty sure we’ve done similar things and more.”

“I… I just… my dad would have beaten the shit out of me if I said something like that in front of a woman and threatened to make me repeat it in front of mom.”

“You’re thirty-seven, Jarvis, and your dad is not here.”

“Uh huh, yes, but,” he holds up a finger, looks very serious indeed, “Wechsler _is_ here, and she punches really hard.”

“Do you want me to protect you from her?” she grabs his chin, gently shakes his head back and forth.

“A little?” he admits, tone light, a hint of a whine bordering on laughter. He reaches up, cups her face, kisses the tip of her nose. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” she nods, and she is. “It is entirely possible that your embarrassment gives me energy.”

“Is that your way of saying that you want to keep reading?” he looks at her, a solitary eyebrow raised.

“Well… I certainly want to get to the guzzling part,” Holly admits.

“Ok, well,” he clears his throat. “I guess…”

“We can read quietly for a while,” she suggests, a peace offering of sorts. Sees his shoulders relax a little, a quick nod. “Only if you want to read it?”

“I do,” Jarvis admits no small amount of reluctance. “But I’m still going to dismember Coleman.”

It’s a bit of an overreaction, she feels, though as they finish the sixth chapter she is starting to see his point. Jarvis is dead silent, hasn’t done more than confirm that he’s finished reading for the past five pages. She’s quiet for a while, puts down the dataslate, tries to make sense of what she just read.

“I don’t get it,” she finally says, breaking the silence.

“I didn’t know that was… in there…”

“I know, it’s just… I get that the chapter needs to help with the poisoning, right, that’s, you know,” she says, feels him lean to the side. Scoots forward to give him space to disentangle, get off the bed. “But the whole bit where they cover her in…”

“Mhm. Yes.”

“Why?”

“I… some people are into it? I… please, Holly, I didn’t write it?”

“No, I know, it’s just… in context, I get it, but as a sexual thing it just seems so incredibly messy?”

“Yeah, it sure does. Especially with those quantities.”

“Do you want to-”

“No,” he says, firmly, raises his voice a little. “Sorry, I just… No. I don’t want to do that to you.”

“It’s not going to hurt, so if you wanted to-”

“It hurts if you get it in your eye,” he says. “Please trust me on this.”

Holly nods slowly.

“Private accident or David?”

Jarvis has told her about sergeant David Zingel, Singh’s original superior officer. The drinking buddy turned boyfriend. Died in the psyker’s fire along with fifty-one other members of the previous 116th. Whenever he has come up Jarvis has kept things vague, seems to think that details will upset her. As if she could lay claim upon his past. She has trouble with his logic, but leaves it be. If she can have secrets then so can he, and she has many. Too many.

He seems to understand that she only means to tease, doesn’t seem to take offense or attempt to change the subject.

“Accident with David,” he throws up his hands. “Got it in my hair too which I don’t recommend. And really, I don’t see the appeal, so no. I’ll pass. And tomorrow I’m wearing Coleman’s skin as a cape.”

He underlines the words with quickly taking off his undershirt, tossing it onto the pile of laundry on the dresser. Time to go to bed it seems. Holly gets up, begins to unbutton her shirt as he heads into the bathroom. The evening routine settles in, comfortable, predictable.

As Holly reaches for her nightgown, slips one hand inside, she glances over at Jarvis. Naked, standing by the bed, back turned to her, stretching his arms up, the muscles on his back moving underneath the skin. She grows still, hears him grunt a little, watches as he rotates a shoulder, working stiffness out of it. Opens her hand, lets the nightgown fall to the floor. Steps forward noiselessly, leans against him to whisper into his ear.

“I fear I have misplaced my armor in the middle of enemy territory,” she says, voice a little lighter, a little bit more melodic. Runs her hands over his back, slowly, taking in the dips and swells. Smiles when he turns around, looks at her, evidently recognizes the voice. 

“Are you…?”

“I trust you’ll protect me until we can recover it?” she adds in the same tone, tracing the shape of his chest. “Maybe preemptively inject me before we head out? One can never be too careful.”

He blushes, tries to contain his laughter, it escapes through his nose. Laughter gives way to a gasp as her hands travel low, reach sensitive skin. Jarvis clears his throat, puts a hand on her waist, warm, comfortable, welcome.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “It’s just, you’ve been very tired lately and-”

Holly gets up on her toes, wraps her arms around his shoulders, kisses him.

“Mm. I’ve missed you.”

And she has, not as much as she would have if he had stayed in the barracks but missed him regardless. Missed his voice, his touch, his eyes. She’s missed how he looks at her more than anything. Misses it again when she closes her eyes as he kisses her, but doesn’t mind so much. She can feel his cock twitch to life against her as they kiss, has missed that as well.

“I’ve missed you too,” he tells her, hands in her hair.

“I can tell,” she glances down, back up again. He chuckles, kisses her forehead.

“That too, but you first and foremost.”

Holly grows still, quiet, closes her eyes and leans against him. Repeats it to herself. Tries to memorize it, this moment, those words. How genuine they sound. When she looks up again he looks a little worried, as if he’s uncertain if he’s said something wrong, relaxes when she smiles a little for him. She kisses his chest slowly, feels the beat of his heart under her lips as he strokes her back, traces her spine.

She presses herself closer, slips her arms around his chest, looks up at him, at that gentle expression she has come to adore. Jarvis kisses her forehead, nose, lips, hands trailing down, squeezing her ass.

As she kisses his neck, she realizes that she’s missed his smell. Missed it though he never truly left, though his pillow smells of him, though they have been so close while reading. Perhaps she missed it because she didn’t think of it, perhaps he hasn’t smoked in a while, allowing his own scent to take center stage. She is just about to tell him when he kisses her hungrily, as if he has missed the taste of her.

He wraps one arm around her back, breaks the kiss and allows some space between them. Slides his other hand down her chest, trails the curve of her breast, her stomach, down between her legs. She shifts her feet a little, allowing him easier access, makes a soft little whimper as he brushes her clitoris, traces her lips.

“Are…?” Jarvis looks at her, a little surprised. Fingers slide into her with ease, finds her more than a little wet. Too wet too soon for it to be his administrations alone. “Really?”

“I, maybe I liked the first chapters,” she tells him, her turn to be a little flustered.

“I guess there can be a stay of execution then,” he laughs, leans down to kiss her as he fingers her. She holds on to him, nibbles his lip, offers up soft little noises at the altar of encouragement.

“Quick question,” he says, breaking contact, pulling out his fingers. “Just the first couple of chapters? Not the…?”

“No, not when the rest of the chapter assisted,” she assures him, changes her voice again. “You’re going to have to satisfy me all on your own, marine.”

“I… Are we doing this?”

Holly only smiles, runs her fingers over his chest slowly, casually. He takes a deep breath, nods, grabs her shoulders and spins her around without warning. Presses her up against his chest, one hand around her waist, the other at her breast.

“If that’s what you want,” he rumbles in her ear, making his voice deeper again.

“Mm,” she exposes more of her neck to him as he gently bites her skin, squeezes her breast. Reaches up to run her fingers through his hair.

It is what she wants, being held tight, handled a little roughly. Safe in the knowledge that he won’t hurt her, not really. Feels his hands caress, squeeze, knead as he presses up against her ass, warm, hard, excited. She pushes back against him; treasures the groan it elicits.

He moves them around, presses her up against the wall, within arm’s reach of the door to the outside world. With his hand at the back of her neck, not hard but certainly there, holding her in place, he hesitates, waits for a reaction. Holly puts her hands against the wall on either side of her head, spreads her legs eagerly as she watches him over her shoulder.

“Please, I need it,” she says, keeps her voice high, assures him they are still playing a game. That she is still onboard.

He still kisses her shoulder before pushing into her, not quite comfortable leaving affection entirely behind. The thrusts start quick but shallow, go deeper readily enough. She gets up one her toes to try to mitigate the height difference, make it easier for him, though it leaves her clinging to the wall for support as he gets into a good rhythm. Delights in the sound of his heavy breathing above her, wants more, more, more, fingers tensing against the wall just as he slows.

She holds back her disappointment, sinks down onto her feet again as he pulls out of her. He grabs her arm, turns her around again, one hand seizes her hip, the other her chin. Tilts her face up to kiss her roughly as she pulls him closer. His hand travel down her body, cups her breast for a moment before continuing its journey down to her hip. He bends down a little, both hands slipping down to her upper thighs. Holly puts her arms around his neck, pushes herself upwards as he lifts her, wraps her legs around his waist.

Jarvis holds on to her, close enough against the wall that she can lean her back against it. Slowly eases her down onto his cock again. She claims his lips before he even has a chance to start fucking her again, loves being so close, loves when he holds her up, loves the feeling of him against her, on her, inside of her. He allows her a couple of minutes of his fingers digging into her thighs, her ass, moving inside of her slowly, steadily. She knows he doesn’t much care for this position, does it for her, does it because of the game they are playing. Finally hoists her up, almost throwing her over his shoulder, carries her over to the bed, gives her ass one, two pats.

“Off you go,” he tells her, delightfully deep. 

The bed squeaks as she drops onto it with a little bounce, looks up at him expectantly. He moves to get onto the bed so she turns around, crawls up a bit to give room. Jarvis grabs her by the hips, pulls her back towards him with a sudden yank. Pauses when she’s under him, wants a reaction. Holly responds with a small approving noise, wiggles her hips a little, brushes against his cock as she does so. Unhurt, all is well, no objections.

She sucks in a sharp breath as he enters her, quick, smooth, deep. Holds on to her hips as if he might send her sprawling if he doesn’t, increases the pace to the point where she starts to suspect she might need the support after all. Fast, hard, over too soon.

He pulls out, much to her disapproval, reaches down and flips her over onto her back. It catches her quite by surprise, she lies on her back, blinks up at him, sees the hesitation, the worry on his face. Smiles as she pushes the hair out of her face, sees the concern melt into a smile. Sometimes it is as if he forgets that war has been part of her life for far longer than it has been a part of his. As if he is scared of hurting her with even the slightest rough treatment. As if a single bruise left by his hands would be unforgivable.

She loves him for it. 

Jarvis pulls her legs up, throws her feet over his shoulders, places his hands on either side of her head, leans down, kisses her throat, nibbles her earlobe as he enters her again. He thrusts into her, hard, over and over, watching her face, evidently searching for a sign of discomfort. She is too exited, too wet, too relaxed for it to be an issue. Wants him, wants him to continue, wants to know what it will feel like if he stops holding back.

He shifts the angle of his hips a little, watches her face as she gasps when he hits the right spot. There are no words, she only manages a small nod as she grabs a hold of his forearms. He proceeds to thrust quick, deep, steady as her legs tense, unable to pull him deeper from her position though she desperately wants to.

Her breath seems to catch in her throat as she comes, back arches, fingers dig into his arms, and he goes deeper into her still, fills her completely, keeps going for just a little while longer before he groans. Her legs feel weak, slip from his shoulders, down his arms. He slowly sinks down on top of her, kisses her while still inside of her, breathing heavily. Holly wraps her arms around his neck, holds him close as they both relax into the mattress.

Jarvis kisses the palm of her hand, her fingertips one by one as they lie there, catch their breath. It feels natural, feels right, as if she couldn’t even imagine doing this any other way. As if he really was her first after all.

Holly remains lying on the bed as he gets up, gets his lho-stick, the little chipped white plate. She isn’t sure if he or the servitor broke it, supposes it doesn’t matter. He lights the lho-stick, comes back to bed, blows out the smoke away from her before kissing her again.

“Well,” she says, using the sororitas’ voice again. “I do believe I have cleaned your blaster quite thoroughly.”

Jarvis breaks into a delightful laugh, buries his face against her shoulder, lho-stick held high, away from her, away from the bed.

“You’ve got to fucking stop,” he manages.

“Hm,” she scratches his hair. “Well, I don’t know if space marines cuddle, but I have it on good authority that guardsmen do, so I suppose I will.”

It seems to be all the encouragement he needs to wrap her up in his free arm, kiss a few of her freckles, her lips. She snuggles closer, presses her lips against his neck, feels his pulse underneath the skin. His free hand seems to have found a comfortable spot to rest at her waist as she traces circles on his chest. He’s quiet as he smokes while she lies and soaks in the afterglow, perfectly content.

“Holly?” he asks.

“Mm?” she looks up, nudges his leg with her foot.

“Did you want me to be…” he clears his throat, tries again. “Look, I’m not comfortable manhandling you, I’m sorry if I disappointed but-”

“Shh,” she puts a finger against his lips. “You’ve never left me disappointed.”

He seems to relax at that, nods, a small smile, eyebrows moving up a little at the center of his brow. Relief. She removes her finger, runs it down his chin, his throat, traces his collarbone. He takes another drag of the steadily dwindling lho-stick, taps ashes onto the plate next to him. Another drag before he puts the stump out, sits up, puts the plate onto the floor, lies down next to her again. Jarvis watches her, fingers reaching out to trace her cheekbones, jaw, nose, lips. Slowly, tenderly.

“You’re really beautiful,” he murmurs as his finger dips below her chin, explores her neck for a moment, the hollow between her collarbones.

“Thank you,” she says, wants to say what she thinks, not sure if she should, knows he doesn’t believe her. Opens her mouth anyway. “You’re very handsome.”

His finger stops, his face tenses. He doesn’t argue, but it is evident that he disagrees. Holly shifts a little to free her right arm, cups his face with both hands. Smiles for him.

“You have such beautiful eyes,” she tells him, wishes she could explain how much she loves how he looks at her. The moments when even she can see the affection that he has for her, when he looks at her as if he isn’t quite certain she is real, that he can’t believe she is there with him.

He scrunches up his face as if she’s said something strange, snorts as if it is a joke.

“You do,” Holly insists, leans in to kiss him.

“There’s nothing special about my eyes,” he insists against her lips, determined not to take a compliment it seems.

But there is. They are the same shade of brown as Wechsler’s, an ordinary shape, often look a little tired. But they see her in a different light than anyone she has ever met before.

“They are kind,” she tells him, meets his confused gaze with no artifice. Wants him to understand, isn’t sure that she has the words to explain it to him. Kind is, apparently, a compliment he can accept even when handsome and beautiful are not. Jarvis smiles, nods, doesn’t argue. Runs his fingers over her stomach, circles her bellybutton, outlines her muscles, her hipbone. His mind seemingly taking him somewhere else entirely.

Holly leans forward to kiss his jawline, his nose, his cheeks. Feels him wrap his arms around her as she carefully bites his lower lip, kisses it afterwards.

She could stay like this forever.

It feels like the day has lasted for half an eternity. Save for an unusually short morning meeting almost all of it has been spent in Lynch’s study, waiting, watching, weary. It is only two hours after dinner, in truth, but it seems as if the day has stretched on for much longer. As if midnight should have descended upon them by now. Lynch has spent it comparing figures, making calls, writing aggressively. Holly has watched him getting up from his desk about a dozen times to stretch his legs, heard him mutter frustrated comments under his breath. Wishes she could help, wishes she could do more than sit quietly on the hard couch. Wishes she could reach out and touch him without offending.

Every now and then he talks directly to her, doesn’t go into too much detail about the morning meeting with the commissars. Tells her enough for it to become apparent that he received very little support for his plan. He is, on the other hand, more than willing to let her know that the other three are garrulous and vindictive, an unreliable fool who could have used his connections to be positioned somewhere comfortable if he had had the decency to not knock up a guardswoman half his age a decade ago, and an overly enthusiastic madwoman whose only talents are waving a sword and shouting, respectively. It is not the kindest description of the other commissars, but it speaks volumes of how unwilling they were to listen to him that he’s disparaging even the tall commissar.

The tedious evening comes to an abrupt halt when the guards call in and inform Lynch that a psyker has arrived. They sound uncertain, have not been informed that her presence has been requested.

“Guide her in,” he tells Holly, heaves himself up to sit up straight with a huff.

Sending the untouchable to escort the psyker. He could easily have asked one of the guards to show the psyker where his office is. A power move, a threat. Not Lynch’s usual style. Still. She knows how to deal with psykers, to make them feel small, weak despite the power they can harness. Also knows that her untouchable superior on the Black Ship was unnecessarily harsh, enjoyed the power imbalance too much. Yet she has to assume that Lynch has at least an idea of what he is requesting.

Very well. She can play along.

“Yes, sir,” Holly agrees. Picks up the two empty glasses with one hand, takes the carafe in the other.

He looks up at her, as if he is about to object. She raises an eyebrow, looks him up and down. Lynch takes the hint, straightens his shirt, rolls down his sleeves, starts looking around for his coat as she leaves to hide the evidence as it were.

Glasses discarded she straightens her jacket, lets go of any pretense of normality. Relaxes her body as she moves, steps out into the antechamber, pushes the door to the hallway open, turns towards the front door. The two guards are there, always standing too close to one another on opposite sides of the hallway. Between them is a woman wearing a thick light grey winter coat, almost covering the psyker robes underneath entirely. She talks to the guards as she wipes her shoes, casual, relaxed.

Holly unfurls her aura, slowly, watches as the woman flinches so badly she stumbles backwards as it reaches her. The guards sense it too, look towards her, clearly expecting her to be much closer.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. Only watches, perfectly still at the end of the hallway. Knows it unnerves people, gives the impression of a dead thing come to life, and just barely at that. The woman swallows nervously, glances at the guards. Looking for allies. Someone who might help her, protect her if push comes to shove.

Holly raises one arm jerkily, gestures to the side, to the hangers where heavy coats are drying.

“Psyker,” she says, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Your coat.”

There is a second of hesitation before the woman takes a deep breath, walks forward, further into her aura. Holly tries to match her pace as she pulls it back, doesn’t want to cause her more discomfort than necessary. The psyker is thin, maybe a decade older than Holly, about the same height, with thick, wavy blonde hair decorated with a slowly melting crown of snow. She approaches Holly slowly, clearly with no small amount of discomfort, pulling the heavy coat off her shoulders, trying to give the impression that that is why she moves sluggishly. Her pale fingers dig into the material far more than necessary to hold on to it.

Holly allows the hesitation, the slow progress. Waits. Finally relaxes the muscles in her arm, lets it fall to her side, limp, almost boneless.

The guards are watching, have never seen her quite as thoroughly uncaring about appearances as now. She looks at them, never moving her head, her eyes, lets the psyker hang her coat in peace. Knows she is making the two guards uncomfortable, does it anyway.

She can practically hear the psyker’s heartbeat as the woman slowly lets go of her coat, only eight feet away. Deciding not to draw it out more than necessary, Holly turns with a sharp jerk towards the door to the antechamber.

“Commissar Lynch is in his office.”

She doesn’t wait. Begins to walk, one, two, one, two. Hears the psyker whisper an acknowledgement, remembering her manners. The other woman follows after a moment’s hesitation, wants to put more distance between them, ease the discomfort somewhat. Holly’s superior on the Black Ship would have forced the psyker to walk at her heels. Such a demand feels unnecessary and cruel, she lets it be, lets the woman take her time, allows her the space.

The psyker takes faster, shorter steps, tripping forward. No rhythm. Has clearly never marched alongside another. Still, she keeps up as Holly guides her, stops outside of Lynch’s office, knocks on the door.

“The psyker, sir.”

“Show her in, Holly.”

She pushes the door open, finds that Lynch has put his coat back on, buttoned his shirt properly, tidied up. The hat is the only superfluous item on the desk. His expression is stiff, grim. A show of authority, propriety, chain of command. She is relieved that she has not misread the situation.

Her feet carry her quietly to her usual position on Lynch’s left-hand side, two steps behind him. Extends her aura again so that it covers the room, hears him take a deep breath as he feels the true extent of it up close. The psyker is nearly in tears as she steps into the room, forcing herself into the no doubt painful situation.

“I’m glad you had the time to join us, Fannon,” he says, tone casual. Yet the situation and his words suggest that the woman is being punished. Holly says nothing, merely watches the psyker scratching her arms, seemingly unaware that she is doing it.

“T-thank… I…” her eyes dart to Holly, back to Lynch. “What can I h-help you with, commissar?”

To the point. She wants to leave, desperately. Lynch looks at her, lets the silence stretch for a couple of seconds, lets the woman wallow in her discomfort. He is undoubtedly not enjoying it either, but it is the difference of burning your hand on a candle’s flame and a flamer to the face.

“I have a task for you and a few of your fellow psykers,” he informs her, at long last.


	12. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, the story is not abandoned in the slightest but Life had the audacity to happen a lot these past couple of months.

It is still early in the evening when Lynch begins to tell her about his time training under commissar Zima senior, a grizzled old man who had no qualms about informing the cadets that they performed poorly in comparison to his daughter. A daughter he had not seen since she was seven, he always added to drive home the scale of their ineptitude.

“Word was that she handed him a formal request to be sent to the Schola in crayons at the age of four,” he gestures with his free hand, a wide sweep, while rolling his eyes. “And that he spent the next three years training her before granting that request. Never thought I’d actually meet her, but she’s… definitely her father’s daughter.”

He says the words in a way that clearly conveys that it is not a compliment. Holly sips her glass, pretends that she doesn’t mind the sting of the alcohol, nods as he continues. Her micro-bead buzzes alive and she freezes with the glass still touching her lips, mouth seeming impossibly dry in an instance. Memories of sudden brief messages in codes flood her mind. Reality comes crashing down on her, the galaxy beyond this, the Inquisitor, orders, the actual mission, her real life. But there is no code spoken into her ear, only a familiar voice.

“Bleak? Have I got the right channel?” Wechsler asks, keeping her voice down. Sounds worried, concerned. Threatened?

“Yes?” she raises her hand to the micro-bead, for Lynch’s sake as he looks quite surprised at having been interrupted. Unaccustomed to it in her company, perhaps even among his equals.

“Could you come to the barracks? There’s a bit of… not a situation but…”

“Of course.”

A half-whispered “thanks” and then nothing. No code, only silence.

No code, yet now she is tense, filled with unease. Wechsler’s request? No. No, it is the reminder that she has managed to forget her old life to this extent that unsettles her, the knowledge that her old life is not going to forget her. Borrowed time, mental gymnastics, self-deception. She has become quite adept at it.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says, rising from her chair. “It seems that I am needed in the barracks.”

“Hm,” Lynch presses his lips together, raises one eyebrow just a hint. Disapproving? Probably suspects that it was Jarvis who asked for her. Cutting their evening even shorter than usual.

“Wechsler asked for assistance,” she explains, feels like she is oversharing. Still. His expression seems to soften a little. He likes Wechsler, likes the cheerful attitude she has whenever she stops by, likes that she can see past Holly’s condition, seeks her out for her company alone. “It doesn’t sound very serious, but nevertheless.”

“You should go then,” he says, leans back, spreads out further on the couch, picks up his dataslate. Sounds a little displeased, yet his words have given her permission, so she chooses the interpretation that suits her.

Holly nods, smiles softly, takes care to stand with her feet close to one another, weight on her left foot, fingers intertwined in front of her. Awkward and small, unthreatening.

“Thank you, sir.”

He glances at her, gives her a hint of a smile. She reciprocates, bowing her head a little, raises her eyebrows into an apologetic frown. Is pretty sure she gets it right as the corner of his mouth twitches, he nods, turns his attention to his dataslate. She wastes no time leaving, yet takes care to walk softly until she has exited the room. Doesn’t want to give the impression that she is fleeing his company.

The guards are talking at their post, keeping their voices down, don’t notice her entering the hallway until she grabs her coat. The sudden silence, the chuckle that quickly dies, the way they look between each other and her as she dresses, pulls her gloves on. Well. At least they’re staying awake. She passes them without a word, only a glance to acknowledge their presence, opens the door and steps out into the cold, the wind, the snow. Summer is well and truly over.

The snow crunches under her boots as she walks, hands in her pockets, fresh snow falling, turning her dark coat fair. There are still people moving about outside, the wind not particularly harsh though the snow falls thick and heavy. It is strangely quiet, all sounds muffled. She saw snow for the first time when she was seventeen. It had seemed magical then, now it is just a nuisance.

As she approaches the barracks, she sees a tall white shape. Someone has made a… not a snowman, but an erect penis out of snow between barracks 17 and 19. From a distance it looks like a pillar but as she approaches it the details become quite clear.

Well. At least someone appreciates the cold.

She pushes the door to barrack 19 open, is greeted by a gasp, a half-strangled shriek. She pauses, one foot inside, one hovering awkwardly still over the threshold, takes in the scene.

The psyker is practically hyperventilating, backing up from her, into confused guardsmen. There is a moment’s pause, she stands still, lets the psyker back up as far as he sees fit. Once he stops she blinks, nods, steps inside, closes the door, begins to pull off her gloves.

“Psyker,” she says, hesitates, remembers what she has been taught. Never apologize to a psyker. Her untouchable superior had held on firmly to that rule. And yet. She arranges her face to express concern, eyebrows lightly frowned, head tilted to the side as she looks the plump man up and down. “I was not aware you were in here,” she tells him, deeming it a reasonable compromise.

The guardsmen are very obviously confused, can sense her presence, feels the unease she causes, but none of them have gone green, look like they are about to throw up. The discomfort of her proximity or nerves? Hard to say. She pockets her gloves, turns her attention to the guardsmen closest to the door.

“If the commissar sees that you have the energy to play in the snow, he’ll think you have energy for more exercises,” she warns them, brushing the worst of the powdery white from her shoulders and sleeves. A pair of the younger men glance at each other, have the decency to look a little embarrassed. The young man with the downy moustache is not among them, not anymore. The thought pinches her stomach, so she pushes it aside.

Holly steps forward, past them, sees the psyker flinch. For the Emperor’s sake… She raises her left hand, gestures with it, fingers pressed together, a swiping motion towards the side, as if brushing crumbs from an invisible table. The man scrambles to obey, practically presses himself up against the bunkbed on the left side of the room.

“Carry on,” she says, voice monotone, though annoyed with his excessive behavior. Takes care to walk as far to the right side of the room as she can as she passes him, walks further into the barracks. It is still chilly here, the work to insulate the building not yet started. People are wearing their coats inside, but the cold doesn’t bite tonight at least.

The 116th are further into the barracks than she expected, seated around a messy table, Singh shuffling a deck of worn cards. Jarvis sees her first, his grim expression changing, eyebrows go up, the muscles around his mouth relax, pull apart, a smile. She returns the smile, soft and gentle, as she approaches, catches Wechsler’s eye. The other woman simply nods towards Jarvis.

Even as she steps next to him he seems tense, keeps glancing towards the other end of the barracks, towards the psyker, the only exit. She puts a hand on his arm, assures him that she is really there, lets her aura unfurl, slowly envelops them all. The squad flinch, shiver, but don’t comment. The guardsmen around them are a different story, they jump, curse, demand to know what that was to no one in particular, but Holly pays them no mind as Jarvis, still seated, reaches up to place a large hand against the small of her back.

“Our lady untouchable is just a bit jealous,” Singh says, voice almost melodic, loud enough for the other guardsmen to hear him clearly. “You were evidently too close to her boyfriend for her liking is all.”

A lie. A lie for their comfort? Very well. Jarvis pushes his chair out a little, pats his thigh. She looks at his leg, at his face, nods, sits down on his lap, lets him pull her close. Feels his heart beat too quickly for what should be relaxed circumstances, his grip on her waist a little tighter than usual.

“We’re playing ladder,” Roth tells her. “You in?”

“That’s not fair,” Wechsler laughs before Holly can answer, gestures to her own face as she speaks, tone light and friendly. “We can’t compete with her.”

“If it helps, I’m not familiar with the game,” she says, tries to match the tone, falls a bit short but the spirit of it is there.

They explain the rules to her, talking over each other, making it more confusing than necessary. She grows still as she focuses, can see that she is unnerving them, Small in particular though he tries not to show it, looks everywhere but in her direction. The rules of the game are not so different from others that she has played, the value of the cards the standard one, the goal simple enough. She blinks, nods, shifts on Jarvis’ lap.

“I think I understand,” she says, takes care to look around, smile a little, move her hands needlessly. Be more alive. 

Singh shuffles the deck a final time, begins flicking the cards with practiced ease. Five cards to a hand, round and round, one at a time. The others chatter as they wait, she only half listens, leans against Jarvis’s chest, meets his eyes, feels his hand squeeze her waist a little, gets a peck on her nose ridge. She closes her eyes, scrunches up her nose a little, smiles. She likes it when he makes a point to kiss her freckles, but he is more restrained now, settles for just the one.

“So, how’s the commissar?” Coleman asks as he flicks a card towards the discarded pile. It turns in the air, reveals a seven, yellow. He seems unconcerned, not even a shrug. A tactic or lack of care?

“He was a little surprised that I left so early,” she admits, discards two cards, slides them along the table. Takes the two new ones, puts them into her hand before peeking down, keeps her hand close to her chest. Absolutely useless cards. At this rate she might as well throw away her entire hand.

“Stevens in 8th says the commissars had some big meeting yesterday,” he goes on, fishing for information, more focused on that than winning the game. He glances at Jarvis, as if needing confirmation that he is not overstepping, not trusting her to warn him perhaps.

“That is true.”

The other guardsmen are listening, she can tell. The woman lying on a nearby bunk is only pretending to sleep, the three behind them have dared closer despite her aura, the shuffling of their boots audible at the mention of the commissar.

Roth chews her lip, the corner of her mouth on the unscarred side of her face twitches, she folds. Coleman is still looking at Holly, expectantly.

“It was a long meeting,” she offers, half-heartedly, reaching out a hand to push Jarvis’ cards closer to his chest so she can’t see them. It is too late of course, she has seen his entire hand, knows where two of the Emperors are, a Primarch, two sevens.

“Mm.” He pulls back his hand towards his chest, she can feel his leg twitch underneath her, trying to bounce a little, prevented by her weight. Another glance past her, towards the door, back to the table.

Coleman presses his lips together, turns to Wechsler, seeking assistance no doubt. Instead it is Roth that speaks up, having nothing to do until this round is over.

“Did you hear what they said?”

“I was not allowed inside. It was commissars only,” she explains as Small folds with a sigh. 

Her turn. She glances at her cards, purposely grimaces a little, presses her lips together, a soft frown. Folds.

“Yeah, but did you hear anything?” Roth persists at her elbow. Holly has to give the girl credit; most would not continue to pester her for information when she has proven to be so unforthcoming.

“The room is well insulated,” she says. There had been raised voices, but even then it was impossible to tell what was being said, muffled by thick walls and doors. “I can’t tell you what was said inside that room.”

“Other than what Lynch has told you afterwards,” Jarvis says, indicates that he is satisfied with his hand by folding up the cards and tapping them against the table.

“Yes,” she agrees, glances at him. In a mood? He normally doesn’t call her out on evasive answers in public.

Holly leans her head against his shoulder, reaches over to angle his cards towards her a little, away from Singh, purposely peeks on cards she already knows now that she is out of the game. Smiles at him when he looks at her, is rewarded with a small smile in return. In a mood but trying. Very well.

“He’s told me a bit,” she admits to the group, to barrack 19. Small begins to mix the discarded pile absentmindedly as they talk, doesn’t seem to even notice that he’s doing it. “But nothing that I have any business sharing, and at any rate Lynch doesn’t tell me everything.”

“Oh boo,” Roth’s tone is playful, but she suspects it masks genuine disappointment. Holly smiles at her, takes care to pull her cheeks up, close her eyes for a brief moment, looks down before relaxing, looking up again.

“Sorry.”

Jarvis wins the round and Small takes over card duty as Coleman fishes out a clean cup for her. Pours a clear liquid into it, the bottle has no etiquette, brewed in secret somewhere in camp no doubt. He pours himself some more, passes it along the table, nudges the cup over to her.

“Give it a try, yeah?”

She accepts, abstains from smelling it before sipping, swallowing. The grimace comes easily, she puts the cup down, covers her mouth with her hand.

“Oh, that is foul,” she winces, pushes the cup back towards him as Small begins to pass them their new cards.

“Ah, come on, how am I gonna bribe you to spill the commissar’s secrets now?”

“Maybe I’d be more willing to talk if you supplied reading material more to my taste?” she says, smiles to underline that she isn’t upset, isn’t angry, only teasing. Feels Jarvis bury his face in the crook of her neck as Coleman snorts.

“Oh, hah, honestly, I only meant to have a go at Eade,” he says, gives Jarvis a slap on the shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d be reading it. Sorry?” He scrunches up his face into a grimace mixed with a smile, difficult to read, decipher, but his words seem genuine. Holly nods, gently pats Jarvis’ cheek as he sits up, looks tired.

“Want to share what it was about?” Wechsler smiles sweetly on the other side of the table.

“No,” Jarvis says firmly before Holly has a chance to respond.

“Maybe I’ll tell you later,” Holly offers, reaches out, takes her cards, glances at Jarvis. He’s smiling a little now, focusing on them, not the psyker, not the past. Progress.

She has a decent hand this time around, chooses to fold regardless. Takes the time to watch the others, their movements, listen to their voices, slowly pulls in her aura a little. The psyker has left, fled. Will have to return later, she supposes. Hopefully when Jarvis isn’t here.

“Hey, Small,” Wechsler says, moving her cards around in her hand, organizing them. High value on her left, descending order. “I never asked, does the new hand have a vibrate setting?”

He reaches over, places his flesh hand on the side of her face and shoves her, but not with any real force. She follows the motion with practiced ease, laughing. 

“No, it has a ‘little finger gets stuck half-bent’ setting, because it’s a piece of shit,” he huffs, holds it up, bends the fingers. As predicted the little finger bends smoothly but is slow to unfold. “I’m going to need you to look at it again.”

“Mhm,” Singh glances at the uncooperative prosthetic, tosses two cards. Nods.

“And I’m frankly insulted that you’d even ask, Wechsler,” Small shakes his head, watches her out of the corner of his eye.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” she asks, tosses the card furthest to her left. Good cards, but probably low figures.

“Every single man you have ever been into has been dumb as a brick,” Coleman says, discards three cards, gets empathic nods from the men around the table.

“Fuck you, guys.”

“I mean,” Jarvis speaks up. “He’s not _wrong_.”

“Fuck you especially,” Wechsler sips her drink. “Rob wasn’t dumb.”

“He had to use his fingers to count single digit equations!” Singh objects, sounds amused.

“He hadn’t had access to education and had a condition! He did fine with words, it was just numbers,” she fires back, glares at Singh, taps her cards against the table. “And you can stop giggling, Roth, don’t think I can’t tell just cause you’re hiding behind your cards.”

On the other side of Small, Roth lowers her cards, clearly struggling to keep a smile off her face. Tries to pretend as if she isn’t amused, fails horribly at it.

“Single digits!”

“We’re not saying he wasn’t nice, he was, but,” Small gives her a meaningful look. “Whooo… And the one before that? What was his name? Big fella with the nice hair? After listening to him talk, I was pretty sure he needed help tying his shoelaces.”

“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” Wechsler says, seems a little bit irritated for real now.

“To be fair,” Holly says softly. “You did tell me about your first boyfriend…”

“In confidence!” she quickly says, holding up a warning finger.

“Oh! Oh, I wanna hear this!” Coleman practically grins from ear to ear.

“ _In confidence_ , Bleak.”

Holly smiles apologetically, offers a little shrug, holds her tongue. Instead, Jarvis looks up from his cards, once more in plain view for her.

“What? The tanner’s kid?” he asks, frowns.

“No! I was like, twelve then. No, Gerry,” she sighs, keeps her eyes on Holly, as if silently threatening her, though she doesn’t seem genuinely angry.

“Oh, yeah, but Gerry was definitely dropped on the head as a baby. Repeatedly.”

“Oh, come on.”

“’Are grox a kind of bird? They don’t have fur, so they must be a bird, right?’” he says, voice a bit higher than usual, mimicking someone Holly has never heard. “Are all furless creatures fucking birds, Mafalda?”

“Fuck you, Jarvis,” she practically hisses, narrowing her eyes, keeping her cards close to her chest as she leans just a little forward.

“Look,” Small places a hand on Wechsler’s shoulder, smiles. “It’s alright. You just have a very specific, unfortunate type. I am sure you will find a lovely ogryn one day.”

“And I’m sure you will have a winning hand one day, or a functioning hand for that matter,” she replies irritably. It’s not a particularly good comeback, but she does win the game with a quartet of fours. The rest don’t seem to mind, make playful suggestions that maybe the commissar can send for some potential boyfriends for her, it evidently worked out for Eade.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jarvis leans forward a little, tries to get a better look at Roth who is half-hidden from his view with Holly in his lap, frowns. “Maybe ease up on the drinking there, kid.”

It is only Roth’s second glass, as far as Holly has seen. Still. The girl is young, short, petite. She supposes it takes less.

“Alright, _dad_ ,” Roth huffs, overenunciates. There is a beat when the two stare each other down, Jarvis’s face twitches a little, as if he is uncertain how to arrange it.

“Look here, Roth,” he raises his voice, points a finger in the girl’s direction. She doesn’t flinch, raises her chin. “I will have none of this blatant disrespect. We’ve been over this before – it’s sergeant dad to you.”

She snorts, rolls her eyes, smiles. Is met with a soft smile, a palpable fondness. It is the first time Holly has heard Roth call him that, but it is evident that the girl has done it before, knows he loves it.

“But you should take it easy on the drink,” he adds, at a normal volume. “I won’t be here to pick you off the floor and put you to bed, and I don’t think anyone wants a repeat of when Singh and Coleman ‘helped’.”

“We didn’t know she was nauseous!” Coleman objects, loudly, empathically, with no small amount of defensiveness.

“You didn’t have to swing me though!”

“Well, look, the important part is… you didn’t get much vomit on the bed?” Singh tries, is met with a very hostile glare from the girl who flicks a card at his face. It turns in the air, tumbles onto the table. Red Emperor.

“Fuck,” Roth looks at the discarded card, back at her hand. “Can we draw new cards, maybe?”

“I think you’re looking at a tough titties situation,” Wechsler laughs.

“Oh, come on. Dad?” she asks, sounding very small indeed.

“I’m not the one in charge of the cards, kid,” Jarvis smiles, keeps smiling even when she turns to Small. The medic doesn’t even look up to register the pleading look.

“You threw the card, you get a new one,” he says, pushes her one from the deck across the table. “Those are the rules.”

“Ugh.”

“Does she usually get her way when she calls you that?” Holly asks Jarvis quietly, sees his cheeks flush. He looks at her, looks away.

“Not, hrm, not every time.”

“What do I need to call you to get what I want?” she whispers in his ear, feels him tense a little, turns to meet her gaze.

“I think you usually get to have things your way, babe,” he says, kisses her cheek, discards two cards from his hand. He isn’t wrong, she knows that, but can’t help but to note that that was not an answer.

The third round starts and Holly stays in the game, watches Wechsler fold early, having thrown away her entire hand at the first opportunity, the second batch of cards hardly any better. Roth is chewing her lip again. Small’s metal wrist reflects the colors of the cards when he holds them just so. Three blue, she is fairly certain, maybe four. He is talking through, actively participating in the conversation. Drawing it out. Uncertain if he is going to discard some of them, probably. 

Coleman folds when Singh taps the table, indicating that he’s satisfied with his hand. Again, Holly gently pushes Jarvis’ hand closer to his chest, having seen the cards. A good hand. Better than hers. Again, his leg is twitching underneath her. Singh has seen his hand too; he is too careless.

“Let me see,” Jarvis says, reaching for her cards, voice playful.

“No,” she leans back a little, holds the cards against her chest.

“Come on, babe,” he prods them, pats her hip, once, twice. “I showed you mine, show me yours, it’s only fair.”

“Well, if you put it that way… No. But I can tell you that you should fold.”

“What?” he looks at her, looks at his hand, pauses. Full armory, but low cards.

“Hey now, no cheating,” Wechsler objects, despite having already abandoned the game.

She smiles, taps the table with her cards, looks at Jarvis as he hesitates, folds. She has gotten to Singh as well, she knows. He has seen Jarvis cards too, has been very still, only looked at the others, has a good hand himself. Singh’s fingers play a rapid melody against the wooden table. He glances up at her, looks down to his cards again, up at her. Folds. Small follows. Roth looks surprised as all eyes turn to her. Her hand is poor, and she reluctantly reveals a pair of tens.

Holly places her cards on the table, revealing three nines, a confessor, an Emperor. Hears the table explode around her, makes sure to smile, appear amused.

“I had a better hand than that!”

“You- I trusted you!”

“I know,” she leans in and kisses Jarvis on the cheek, once, twice. Smiles, watches him huff.

“I told you!” Wechsler laughs. “She’s got an unfair advantage.”

Holly is tempted to tell her that it is not that she doesn’t give anything away that won her the game, so much as they reveal too much. Decides against it, only smiles wider, shows her teeth, pulls her aura closer, dampens it. Takes care to lose the two games that follow.

The snow is coming down gently by the time they step out of barrack 19. The snow dick has been demolished, only a sad stump and a pair of testicles remain. They walk side by side through the camp, their breath billowing out in puffs of pale smoke in the cold air. She sees the mirth seeping out of him along with the warmth, slips an arm around his, presses herself as close against him as she can while still walking.

“I had fun,” she tells him. Knows that he knows, but nevertheless.

“I did too,” he says. It is true and yet not.

She hesitates, takes a deep breath, pushes on.

“I did warn you,” she says quietly, almost a whisper. Had told him about the psykers being ordered to make rounds among the men, that they were likely to be more visible in the near future. Lynch had told her not to tell anyone, of course, and she had promised him she wouldn’t. Telling a lie is easy when neither voice nor face can betray you. 

“I know, I just…” Jarvis grimaces. “I don’t like them.”

“I know.” And she does. Has had plenty of opportunity to observe the scars they have left on him, scars more debilitating than the physical ones.

They walk in silence for a while, she gives his arm a squeeze. He takes his hand out of his pocket, rubs her arm a little, puts it back.

There is a void between them, she can feel it, can’t put her finger on why. Something she said? Something she did? Didn’t say, didn’t do? Perhaps he didn’t want her to come after all. Perhaps Wechsler was wrong.

They step in through the front door, the guards have changed. New men, night shift, one yawning, evidently not ready for the task. They step past them, stamp the worst of the snow off their boots, hang their coats. She hears the snoring before she opens the door to the common room.

“Go ahead without me,” she tells Jarvis, keeping her voice down. It is silly, perhaps, Lynch is snoring so loudly that she doubts he would wake unless she raised her voice. And yet, it seems like the right thing to do.

Jarvis nods, walks past her, towards the dark hallway that leads to their room without a word. His silence breathes further life into her unease.

Perhaps she is overreacting, perhaps he is just keeping quiet so not to disturb Lynch. And yet.

And yet it feels like a little jab to her insides. A hint of nausea follows in its wake. Unfamiliar, distressing.

She will have to deal with that later.

Holly walks quietly into the common room, taking care to avoid the part of the floor that creaks. Lynch is splayed out on the couch, on his side, dataslate on the floor, empty glass on the table. Judging by what remains in the carafe it’s been three, maybe four glasses.

Too much.

He’s upset too.

It looks like she’s really fucked it up today.

She walks further into the compound, makes her way to the commissar’s bedroom. The bed is massive, could easily fit three. She can’t imagine what it has to be like, sleeping under such an enormous cover. You could turn and turn and never find the edge of it.

It was easier, working with the Inquisitor. She knew where she stood with him. A useful tool to be deployed. An obedient agent that always did what she was told. Someone who kept her revulsion and horror locked up on the inside, never questioned his decisions. Never objected.

Nearly a decade and a half. Not once did she ever have to perform for him, put effort into acting out emotions. If she was reprimanded it was because she had failed the task that she had been assigned, not because she had said the wrong thing, didn’t know how or when to show affection.

Holly picks up the dark blue blanket at the foot of the bed, folds it over her arm, stands still, takes in the silence. The emptiness.

She’s too tired for this. The fact that she finds herself missing working directly under the Inquisitor is proof enough that she’s worn thin. At a loss. She’s swam too far from the familiar shore and isn’t sure if she is going to make it back to land. Perhaps the only option is forwards, perhaps it is no option at all.

Inaudibly her feet return her to the common room, to the snoring man, though her mind seems to stay in that quiet room. She bends down and picks up the dataslate, puts it on the table, puts away the carafe, the glass. Unfolds the blanket, carefully covers Lynch’s feet first, slowly pulls it up over his shoulders. His breathing is lighter, so she steps away, quickly, quietly, retreats to a good distance, waits. The snoring continues.

She heads down the hallway, slips in through the door, sees that Jarvis has discarded some of his clothing, hears him brushing his teeth in the bathroom. She follows suit, undresses, slips on the rust red nightgown. Enters the bathroom just as he is leaving, they sidestep each other with practiced ease. No hand reaches out to touch. Another jab to her insides.

The woman that looks back at her in the mirror is unconcerned, shows nothing of what she feels. If she feels anything at all. Might as well be truly hollow. 

She prepares for bed in silence, mechanically going through the motions. When she exits the bathroom Jarvis is already lying in bed, on his side, back turned to her. There is too much space left for her, the bed too big, they might as well sleep at separate ends of the commissar’s bed.

She turns off the light, tips closer to the bed, hesitates.

“Are you upset with me?” she asks. Hears the rustling of sheets as he moves, turns to look at her, though the room is too dark to see.

“What? No,” he says, but his voice sounds empty, emotionless.

Still, she climbs into bed, feels her way into the seemingly endless space he’s left for her. Feels his back, slowly presses herself closer to him, wraps an arm around his chest. His hand finds hers, cups it. She doesn’t press the issue further. Doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if she wants to hear the answer if she did know.

He wakes her in the early hours, heavy breathing, squeezes her against his chest too hard, wakes, disentangles from her. It has been a while since he woke up like this. She listens as he finds his coat in the dark, sits up slowly as he lights a lho-stick, sees him sit down with his back to her, legs over the edge of the bed. An agitated hand runs through his hair, across his burned arm, fingers digging into the scar tissue, his breathing unsteady. Trying to calm down, trying to push the dreams, the memories, away.

She scoots closer, sits next to him, a hand gently touching his shoulder, slides it along his skin until she can press it against his broad back. Kisses his burned arm before leaning against it to force him to stop clawing at himself, rests her head against his shoulder, starts gently rubbing circles on his back. Doesn’t know what to say, sits quietly and waits.

“Sorry,” he says after a little while.

“Mm-m,” she kisses his shoulder again, feels him trembling despite himself. Smells the sweat on him, it smells different, sharper, stress rather than exertion. Her presence isn’t enough, can’t protect him against an enemy that exists only in his head. It feels like she has failed him. 

She hears him take a sharp breath through his nose, not a sniffle, but perhaps not far from it. Having only the glow of the lho-stick to see by makes it all the more difficult to read his body language.

“I keep…” he starts, stops, is quiet for a moment before trying again. “I can still hear her laugh, you know?”

She nods, knows he can feel the movement against his skin, waits.

“That fucking laugh… while we burned and screamed and burned and burned and fucking burned,” his voice grows increasingly agitated, takes another drag of the lho-stick. Fire tamed, reduced to a smoldering glow, safe, controlled. “I just… it would have been easier if I’d just… died there. With everyone else.”

He lets out the smoke in an invisible puff in the dark, the smell reaching her nostrils as she processes what he’s telling her. Feels even more lost, even more uncertain what to say, what to do.

“I…” she starts, hesitates, wonders if she should speak at all. If he would prefer to be allowed the time to say everything that is bubbling up inside of him. Scared that he will take it the wrong way if she doesn’t say anything. “I’m very grateful that you didn’t.”

He turns his head ever so slightly towards her, glances at her, can’t see her any better than she him. There is a small sigh, he looks away, struggles with something.

She has said the wrong thing, upset him further. Not for the first time she berates herself for allowing her understanding of social interactions, of relationships, to remain so limited. If she had tried harder, studied people more, read more on the subject, perhaps she could have helped him now. Instead she shied away from it, like a coward. Allowed weakness to fester because she assumed this was something she would never have.

She doesn’t mention that he wouldn’t be here with her if it wasn’t because of that psyker only nearly killing him, scarring his mind so severely that her soulless presence has warped into a source of comfort. Knows that he wouldn’t be with her if he wasn’t so afraid of the opposite side of the coin on which she is stamped. If it didn’t hurt so much to see him like this, she would have been grateful for his trauma.

That is a conversation they will never have. Not now, not ever. It reeks of endings, of no turning backs, even to her.

“Sorry,” he mumbles again after a long moment of silence. Leans down to put out the lho-stick against the little plate on the floor, leaves them in complete darkness.

She feels her way up along his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, nudges him closer, leans in, kisses him gently. The response is weak, but there. She stays close, fingers stroking his neck.

“Do you want to…” she starts, drawing out the words the same way she does when making a playful suggestion that he ought to bend her over the dresser or the like. She feels the weak smile against her face, her fingers.

“I don’t think I’m really up for it.”

“That sounds like quitter talk.”

He snorts, she feels the smile grow more pronounced.

“Seriously though, Holly, I…”

“I know,” she assures him, kisses his cheek. And she does. Didn’t genuinely mean it. Would have gone along with it if he had wanted to, if it had made him feel better, helped him forget, but not out of any real desire on her part. “I just wanted you to smile.”

For him to smile, to be happy, for the void to close, to go away, to let things be good between them again.

His left hand moves, slowly, finds its way around her waist. Holds on to her a little bit too tight. His breath is still ragged, but he’s trying, deep breaths, over and over.

They sit like that for longer than she can count. It feels like an eternity, like it will never end. She can feel his breath on her face, hears the slight tremble whenever he breathes in, feels his heart beat under her hand, too fast. Mind no doubt revisiting memories best left abandoned, ignored, replaying them over and over.

Eventually she can’t take it anymore, pushes away his hand, slips out of his grip. He lets her go, reluctantly. She can hear him take another deep breath, more pronounced, pushing down upset feelings he doesn’t seem able to articulate. Moving away seems to have been the wrong thing to do, but she wants to see him, wants him to see her. This is not a conversation to be had in the dark.

Slowly she makes her way across the little room, reaches the wall, the door, turns on the light. They blink at each other for a few seconds before she reaches down, pulls the nightgown up over her head.

“Hey, no, babe, I mean it,” he says weakly, somehow seeming worse now than when they last spoke. “I’m not… I don’t…”

“No,” she agrees, throws the garment onto the bed, walks forward to stand in front of him.

Reaches out, takes his left hand, pulls it towards her, presses it against her, against the skin below her right breast, against the stark paleness of her las fire scar. He seems uncertain, doesn’t understand what she is doing, still seems to think she is trying to coax him into having sex.

“I was shot, here,” she says, sees a frown forming, lines in his face deepening. His hand slides down a little, revealing the scar he has seen countless times by now, his thumb and index finger framing it. “When I was bleeding out, I learned that… That consuming the blood of an untouchable might…” The words are a struggle to get out. Words that she never wants to hear again, never wanted to speak, as if saying them would breathe life into them, fill them with truth. “It might infuse others with… with some degree of our resistance to daemons and the like.”

The frown deepens, he looks up at her face, meets her eyes. Incredulous, doubting.

“I don’t know if it works,” she admits. Imagines if it did, untouchables would be bled on the regular, yet she knows that even dead and dismembered her body would repel that of the warp to some degree. Pauses. Takes a deep breath, pushes away the strangling fear, the terror of what she has to say. She has to. She knows she has to. She has no soul. All she has is her mind and her body. She was made to protect others. If there is even a chance that it helps, then she has to. “But there are things that are made out of psykers, so… If… If you want, you may take of me, blood, flesh. It might help.”

He snatches away his hand, as if her skin has burned him, stares at her. Horror, revulsion, shock. She sees him struggle for words, to come to terms with the idea.

“It’s alright,” she says, but it isn’t. She doesn’t want to do this, but it might help. It might offer him some protection, some peace of mind. She turns towards the dresser, to her knives, neat in a row.

She only gets a single step away from him before he grabs her wrist, harder than he’s ever grabbed a hold of her. Normally she likes it when he lifts her, holds her, enjoys his strength. But this time it hurts, she has to forcefully push away her instinct to counterattack, her eyes instantly glancing back, seeing the throat, exposed. Hand tenses, ready. She smothers the reflex, allows him to pull her back towards him, onto the bed, doesn’t resist. He pulls her down, pulls her in, hugs her, hard and almost suffocating. She struggles awkwardly to sit down on the bed again as he holds on to her, the angle uncomfortable, his grip too tight.

“Fucking hell, Holly,” he manages, talking into her hair, head pressed into her neck. “Don’t… Don’t say shit like that.”

It is uncomfortable, awkward, painful even, but she stays, gently wraps her arms around him, doesn’t protest. When he pulls back, cups her face with his hands, she struggles to read his expression. He looks her in the eyes, is upset, yes, but there are nuances she cannot read as his eyebrows, mouth, muscles in his cheeks move.

“Don’t say shit like that,” he repeats, firmer though his breathing is still unsteady. She has not helped after all.

“Don’t say shit like you did earlier,” she tells him quietly. “I want to keep you.”

“I… want to keep you too,” he says. “Whole. Not…”

He can’t even say it. She takes comfort in that. That he finds the idea of cutting her up, consuming her, even when offered, unthinkable, unspeakable.

They sit like that for a long while, seconds go by, minutes. He holds her close, noses touching, face cupped in his hands, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers gently brushing the nape of his neck. When he finally lets go it is with a heavy sigh. Turns away from her, looks at his hands in his lap.

“Fucking piece of shit,” she hears him say quietly, eyes closed, face a grimace. Sighs again, deeper, reaches up and rubs his face with his right hand. “I… Look, we both know… if you weren’t an untouchable you wouldn’t be here with me. You’d be…” his voice trembles, trails off again. “You can do better than me.”

She freezes at the words. They don’t make sense to her. Speak of separation, abandonment, leaving, when he just said he wanted to keep her.

“What?” she croaks, the word barely making it past her lips. She has no air in her lungs, yet she is certain she was breathing steadily before he spoke. The words she knows. She understands them. She just doesn’t understand what he means. What he is saying. It doesn’t add up at all.

“He doesn’t mind what you are,” he manages, but only barely. Forces up a smile that doesn’t look right, doesn’t move the muscles around his eyes, is almost a grimace. Struggles to find the words. No, perhaps not to find them, but to say them. It sounds like he is voicing thoughts he has had for a long time. Unpleasant thoughts that burrow deep. She is familiar with the kind. “You should… Fuck, I won’t blame you. I get it. He’s… I’d dump me for him too.”

It is no great mystery who he is talking about, it has been brewing for a while now, though there is no logic to it. It isn’t where she thought this conversation was taking them. She has evidently misspoken worse than she suspected.

“Why would I choose Lynch instead of you?” she asks, genuinely does not see the logic of it, hurt by the suggestion. Watches him intently, tries to read his face. All she sees is abject misery.

“Yeah… why would anyone choose a commissar instead of a lowly guardsman?” he smiles, humorless, tired, sad. Keeps his eyes on the floor, seems to find it easier to talk when he isn’t looking at her. “I get it, it’s… it’s fine. I mean, he’s attractive, and you’re already together all day and, well, you’re not a guardswoman so it’s not technically a violation of the rules. And I… I can’t fucking offer you anything. I get it. You deserve better.”

She wants to scream, grab his shoulders, shake him. She has no words to explain that Lynch cannot give her what he does, doesn’t have it in him. He treats her well, better than most, she doesn’t deny that, and maybe if she had never gotten to know Jarvis she would have seen the commissar in a different light. If she hadn’t gotten a taste of what life could be like. Of being accepted as she is, of being heard, of being seen as a person.

“I drink recaff in the morning,” she tells him. Trivial, yet those are the only words she seems to be able to find.

Jarvis is quiet for a while, it understandably takes him a moment to understand what she is talking about. Holly barely understands it herself. The recaff is, frankly, a minor inconvenience, nothing more. Insignificant yet unpleasant.

“You don’t like recaff,” he says quietly. She can feel his hand next to her thigh, trembling ever so slightly still.

“No,” she agrees. “I don’t. But he expects me to drink, so I do.”

It is bitter, smells unpleasant, makes her think she is focused and awake when she is not, not really. And yet, she drinks it when it is put in front of her. Because telling Lynch no feels like she is being difficult. It is such a small thing, and yet declining it is too much.

She knows the discomforts that lie down that path if she takes that into the bedroom intimately. Has no desire to revisit it. Has learned that it doesn’t have to be that way. That she is allowed to decline, to want.

It isn’t Lynch’s fault, of course. The discomfort of objecting lies with her. And yet he also frequently gives no room for her to speak. Too busy talking, deciding. It is getting better, yes, he is listening more, and yet she cannot bring herself to refuse even simple things.

Holly reaches out, strokes Jarvis’ face, gently pushes it towards her. She isn’t sure if he understands, wishes she had a script for this, knew what the right thing to say was. Doesn’t know how to formulate herself to make him see. Tries anyway. 

“I don’t want Lynch,” she tells him earnestly. He doesn’t want her either, she wants to point out, but that hints of having asked, of having spoken with Lynch of things that will upset Jarvis further. Such words have never passed between them, of course, but she knows. “I want you.”

Again, that incomplete smile, paired with a frown. He looks at her as if she is saying that to be nice to him, as if she is lying to protect his feelings. She touches his face gently, fingers brushing over his burn scarred cheek. She hesitates before she speaks again, knowing that she has to get this right, has to be clear, make him understand with no room for miscommunication.

“Jarvis,” she says slowly, searching for a hint, anything but that terrible sadness in his eyes. “I’m not sure what you think that Lynch can offer me that you can’t. I just… I know that…” she opens and closes her mouth; wishes she were better at this for the thousandth time tonight. “You’ve treated me as an equal, as a human being. I… I wouldn’t trade that kindness for anything.”

“That’s not really…” he grows quiet, grimaces, begins to turn away. 

Her hands move faster than is proper under the circumstances, the same speed reserved for a fight, gripping his chin, grasping the side of his face. He flinches, a flash of fear, for a moment he is reminded that she is a good enough fighter to serve as a commissar’s bodyguard, perhaps realizing for the first time that she could do him genuine harm, incapacitate, kill. Her hands press against his skin, palms and fingers gently guiding his face back towards her.

She shouldn’t have done that. Should have moved slower, taken more care not to startle him, made the motion smoother, more fluid. Yet there is no fear when his eyes meet hers again, her failure forgiven, trust overriding threat.

“I don’t know what to say,” she tells him, moves a leg up from the floor, moves it underneath her body, puts their faces at more equal height. “I don’t know what I am supposed to say,” she goes on, leaning closer until their noses touch. “I don’t know what you want to hear. I don’t know how to fix this. I just know that I want you to be happy. Name what you want, what you need, if I can give it to you then… then I will do so. Point me at your daemons and I will destroy them.”

Jarvis looks at her, opens his mouth to speak, closes it again, grimaces, breaks. It is the first time she sees him cry, first time she ever holds someone as they weep. Slowly she coaxes him to lie down on the bed, crooked and awkward, legs dangling over the edge as she cradles his head to her chest. Cannot take it anymore, unfurls her aura, pushes it as far as it will go, makes it as strong as she can make it. Watches him shiver, meet her eyes, sees the guilt.

He knows why he is here with her of all people, and he knows that she knows.

She kisses his forehead, lies quietly with him, running her fingers through his hair, scratches his head. She will not say it, and neither will he. The spell will hold. He holds onto her, slowly his breathing eases, slows, falls asleep again. Safe. Sheltered. Protected.

She doesn’t dream, feels as if she hasn’t slept at all when the first alarm goes off. Too tired to wake properly she remains still as Jarvis disentangles himself from her. Still has one foot in the land of dreams when she feels his hands under her, lifting her, cradling her against him before gently lying her down properly on the bed. Opens her eyes just enough to see him pull the covers over her, bags under his eyes, a frown on his brow.

She slumbers as he showers, dresses. When she hears him sigh, the creak of the chair, the tell-tale sound of boots against the hard floor, she opens her eyes.

“Jarvis?” she calls out, sits up. Her body aches but she knows this can’t wait. He pauses by the door, turns around, meets her eyes. “Come back in the evening?”

“If you’ll have me.”

It is agony but she pushes the covers off of her, gets out of bed, reaches for him. He seems hesitant but embraces her. Holds her tighter after a moment, it feels more genuine, more desperate. Every button and buckle seem to dig into her exposed skin, but she holds on to him, needs him to understand.

“I meant what I said last night,” she says, looks up to watch his face, try to decipher if there is anything there but regret and shame. “I want you. You’re not exchangeable to me.”

He blinks rapidly, looks away, doesn’t seem certain where to focus his gaze. For a moment she fears he might cry again, but he settles for reaching up, cupping her face with one hand, his other at her bare back.

“I’m sorry, I’ll get my shit together,” he promises her. “I’ll be better.”

“At your own pace,” Holly tells him. “I can wait.”

The kiss he gives her is almost chaste, too brief. She digs her fingers into his jacket, pulls him back down, kisses him again, lingers until she feels his shoulders relax a little.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Don’t be. Just come back in the evening.”


	13. Communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional bonus content, a [Holly piece](https://zenatness.tumblr.com/post/639495363547611136/another-illustration-of-holly-bleak-from-the) and [a height chart](https://zenatness.tumblr.com/post/640017393584930816/finally-finished-the-height-chart-of-the-cast-of) with the characters Holly has deemed worthy of being referred to by name (!) I also want to sue GW for emotional trauma after drawing weapons, thank you and good night.

Jarvis comes back in the evening, the usual time, pushes the door to the common room open after knocking. He seems subdued, withdrawn, hesitant, as if he isn’t certain that he is welcome anymore. Holly is out of her chair before he has stepped into the room, throws her arms around him, holds him tight, as if he might change his mind otherwise. Feels the stubble on his chin against her temple, a large hand against her back, hears Lynch chuckle.

“I think she missed you.”

“I…” Jarvis starts, grows quiet as she looks up at him, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “I suppose so.”

Lynch finishes his drink in one swing, puts the glass down with an audible click, gets up from the couch. Holly does not doubt that he can tell that something isn’t right but is not in the habit of asking questions about their relationship.

“Maybe one day I’ll find someone that excited to see me at the end of the day,” he says, sounds amused. Jarvis’ arms tighten a little around her, strong, warm, safe. “Good night.”

“Good night, commissar.”

“Good night, sir,” she glances over at him, still holding on to Jarvis. Only sees Lynch’s back, giving them a wave as he heads to his private rooms. Cedes the common room for them. They stay only for a little while before they retreat to their bedroom, turn on the lights, close the door.

It is a quiet evening, but it is together. They barely talk, lie silent and touch, soft, gentle caresses, physical assurances of affection where verbal ones seem too overwhelming. Jarvis turns off the lights early, surprises her as she waits by the middle of the bed when he gets in on her side, holds her close as if there is no more space available to them, as if the new bed is too big for him as well tonight.

She wakes early, before his alarm is set to go off but not by much. Lies curled up against him, still only occupying the limited space their old bed would have afforded them. He appears to still be asleep so she leans in, kisses his neck, the curve of his ear, his jawline. Hears his breathing change, feels the arm around her squeeze her a little closer as he hums his approval.

“You’ve got two minutes,” Holly tells him, kisses his cheek once, twice.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, so she continues to leave a trail of kisses on his cheekbone, his nose, his lips, runs her fingers through his hair. It is getting long enough to start to curl a little on top, she notes, predicts a haircut in the not-so-distant future.

By the time the alarm goes off he is fully awake, firmly reminded of her opinion of him in a manner he seems to be able to accept. He kisses her before he climbs out of bed, seems happy, she notes as he dresses, sees him glance over at her a couple of times with a small smile on his lips. She makes a mental note to wake him up with kisses again in the future.

Jarvis kisses her again before he leaves, lingers as he does so, wordlessly lets her know that he cares for her too. Once he closes the door, walks down the hallway, the sound of his boots growing fainter until she cannot hear him at all, Holly gets out of bed. She discards the nightgown, gets in the shower, begins her own morning routine.

Lynch steps into the dining room shortly after she’s had a seat, the steward pouring them their recaff, excusing himself, leaves them to eat in peace. They bid each other good morning, start to eat while he fiddles with his dataslate as usual. It doesn’t take long before Lynch clears his throat, evidently wants her attention so she complies, looks up, waits.

“So, how are things going?” he asks cautiously, seems hesitant to pry. “With your guardsman.”

She suppresses the urge to say that everything is fine. Lynch is a friend, he asks because he cares, worries. Instead, she provides him with a small smile, briefly glances down at her plate, shrugs her shoulders.

“We have had a hiccup, but not a fight,” she assures him. “We will be alright.”

She wraps herself in those words, repeats them to herself, tries to convince herself that they are the truth. It makes the wait until her and Jarvis’ inevitable conversation easier on her nerves. Almost like isolating an upsetting memory, pushing it aside, leaving it behind.

“Ah, well, there are bumps in every relationship,” Lynch smiles at her, though it seems a bit strained. “But, well, tears, box, penal colony.”

“I remember,” she nods. “No tears, I promise.”

“Ah, good, good.”

“There was one thing though,” Holly says, puts down her knife and fork.

“Yes?”

“I think it would be in our best interest to change the guards stationed by the gates,” she says, has had plenty of time to consider how she is to suggest this to him. “The weather is becoming worse and worse. If we still have people aiding the enemy within the camp, and I am certain that we do, they will try to sneak out equipment sooner rather than later. We want people we can trust stationed there, at least while Fannon and the other psykers do their rounds.”

“You don’t think the current guards are doing a good enough job?” Lynch asks, raises one eyebrow. She isn’t sure if he’s amused or questions her. It doesn’t matter, she presses on.

“No,” Holly says bluntly. “We have found no hidden tunnels leading out of here, so whatever is being smuggled out of the base is going through the gates. It might just be one shift that is compromised, but that is all it takes.”

“Mm,” he cuts a fried mushroom in half, dips it in the egg yolk. “I suppose there is something to be said for a more irregular guard schedule on key positions for the time being. I’ll see what I can do.”

There is no doubt that he understands who she wants posted by the gate, though she never says the word. Perhaps the rest of command were right to question her professionalism after all. And yet her logic is sound, it is sensible, it will also effectively place Jarvis far away from the investigating psykers for most of the day. 

Evening comes and once Jarvis closes the door to their bedroom, she can tell that he too knows they have to use their words this time. Bring the issue out into the light, discuss it, confront it. She doesn’t relish it, knows she will stumble, knows it has to be done. Jackets and shoes removed, tucked away, they sit down on the bed, wait for the other to speak first. She is better at waiting.

“I’m sorry,” Jarvis tells her, takes her hand, squeezes her fingers a little. “I’m not the same person I used to be. I’m still not accustomed to, to what survived. What’s left. And… I do think you deserve better.”

“You’re the only Jarvis I have ever known,” Holly counters. This, at least, comes easily enough. “I like this Jarvis.” He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, about to answer but no words come. She squeezes his hand, smiles. “I like him very much, truth be told. I do wish he’d like himself a bit more though.”

He meets her eyes briefly, looks away, swallows. Seems to find the red and white rug of great interest, won’t even look at her when he finally speaks.

“I think that is easier said than done.”

“At your own pace,” she reminds him, brings his hand up to her lips, kisses the back of it. Wants to list all the things that she likes about him but knows that such words will be met with resistance, rejection, denial. “I genuinely don’t understand why you think I would want someone else.”

“I can think of a number of reasons.”

“I can’t think of a single one,” she tells him. He finally looks at her, eyebrows half-raised, half a frown, communicates the doubt he feels loud and clear. Looks as if he wants to tell her not to lie to him, as if he expects deceit in the name of kindness. She doesn’t move her face, just watches him, hopes he understands that she means it. That she might never have spoken with more honesty.

For a moment she thinks he’s about to start listing all the reasons she should choose Lynch, but instead he slumps down, leans his head against her shoulder. His surrender is such a relief that she loses whatever words she wanted to follow up with, is too grateful that she might finally be getting through to him to push it further. She reaches up, scratches his hair, rests her cheek against his head, leans into his touch.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. So far the conversation has been expected, something she has been able to prepare for. Yet she knows that she is going to have to discuss other issues, related issues. Has to take the lead. An unfamiliar, unwelcome prospect.

“I… I like Lynch,” she admits, feels the grip on her hand tighten ever so slightly. “But not… I…” she pauses, wishes she had thought this through properly, prepared better. “I’m not leaving you for him.”

He sits up again, slowly, looks at her quietly. The frown brings out the lines in his face, makes him look older than he is, speak of doubt, if not in her then at least in himself.

“And I really don’t mind that he calls me Holly,” she tells him, one of the few points of contention that she has any confidence that she can explain in a manner that will not upset him. “I actually like it. I wouldn’t mind if the 116th called me by my first name either.”

Jarvis sighs, musters up a weak smile.

“That’s… not going to happen,” he explains. “Mainly because Coleman’s first name is Edmund, and he hates it and every nickname derived from it.”

She meets his smile with one of her own, touches his face.

“I suppose I shall have to endure being Bleak with them in that case.”

They are quiet for a while, sitting close, gently touching. Fingers stroking cheeks, caressing hands, soothing aching nerves. So far it has gone well, she has to admit. If they stop now they can move forward, call it a success, she’s communicated well with him despite the inherent stress of the situation. He still looks sad though, so she knows they aren’t done yet, can’t kiss, cuddle, bury the discomfort and never look back.

“Holly?”

“Yes?”

He meets her eyes this time, though the frown is still there. Reaches up, cups her face with his hands, looks dreadfully serious.

“I know it came from a good place, but please, never _ever_ offer to cut yourself into pieces for me again, or anyone. That’s beyond fucked up. You deserve so much better than that.”

It is her turn to look away, to feel unsure, awkward, vulnerable.

“I… I just…”

“Never,” he repeats, voice firm, serious. It feels like a scolding.

“You were hurting.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he kisses her, sudden, brief, chaste. “Don’t you ever tear yourself apart for my sake, you hear me?”

His fingers are in her hair, brushing her cut ear. She is quiet for a moment, fills her lungs to the brim, slowly lets the air out. He wants to know what she is thinking, wants to understand her reasoning. So, she tells him of her posting when the group she was assigned to held her down, cut her ear as an experiment, tested to see if it would offer some protection in its own right. He listens, quiet, horrified, touch growing ever more tender. She tells him of how she was thrown into a small cell, left to wait and see if the little piece of her was good enough, if she was more useful dead and dismembered.

“It was one of the worst missions I have been tasked with,” she tells him. “But… they weren’t wrong. And I can live without an ear, I can lose a few fingers or toes. I can lose a whole hand, it won’t matter, not in the long run. And if Small can manage without one then so can I.”

“It does matter,” he stubbornly insists. “You are a person, not a piece of flesh to be cut into convenient steaks. Fuck every last fucker who thinks otherwise. I might be a piece of shit, but I’m not going to sit here and entertain the notion that my comfort is worth more than your well-being for one damn second.”

“You’re not a piece of shit, Jarvis,” she says quietly. It isn’t the first time she’s heard him say it, isn’t the first time she’s objected. He snorts at that, shakes his head. “You’re not. Really.”

“You wouldn’t…” he hesitates, closes his eyes, breathes out slowly. Looks at her, worry etched into his features. “Would you really have chosen me if you had other options? And, I mean, you do, I’m not trying to put you down, you’re wonderful, but…”

But she is an untouchable.

It might be the end after all, she realizes. He’s saying words that should not be spoken. Dragging up issues that are best left buried and rotting unseen, ignored.

“I, I know you don’t believe me,” Holly says slowly. “But I do find you attractive. As you are. And I liked the person who brought me along to that old mine, who talked to me as if I were anyone else, who touched me as if I were anyone else. That… that hasn’t changed. If anything, I’ve come to like you a whole lot more. The other night,” she pauses, tries again. “The other night, I was worried about you and, and scared.”

“I would never hurt you,” he says quickly, emphatically, and she knows it is true, has known for a long while.

“I wasn’t scared of you,” Holly corrects, sees his shoulders relax. “I was scared… for you? I, I don’t… I was scared of losing you. I… I know…”

The words she needs to say die in her throat, leaves the bitter taste of ashes in their wake, chokes her into an uncomfortable silence. Holly turns away, tries to swallow but the unspoken words have left a stubborn near suffocating lump there. She can feel her hands begin to tremble so she pulls away, gets up from the bed. Hears Jarvis call her name as she walks away, into the bathroom, closes the door, locks it.

Holly pulls the flimsy shower curtain closed, sinks down on the dry shower floor, cutting the world into pieces, leaving her with only a few square feet. If she says the words the spell will break, he will realize that he doesn’t want her, that his attachment to her is only because of what she is.

Too many words have already been spoken, too much of herself laid bare. Anymore and it will all come crashing down. Her heart is beating rapidly in her chest, as if she has been exercising, takes longer to calm down than it would if she had been running through the base.

She isn’t sure how much time has passed when there is a knock on the door.

“Holly? Sweetheart?” she hears Jarvis on the other side. “I know you need space, but I really need to take a piss so if you could maybe open the door and let me in, I promise I’ll leave you be but… please, I’m fucking dying.”

Getting up is awkward, her legs have fallen asleep, prickle and pinch as she walks on them. She unlocks the door, opens it a little bit, knows he’s on the other side but not how close, doesn’t want to hit him. He opens it the rest of the way and she slips right past him, doesn’t stop to look at him, hears the door close as she crawls up onto the bed instead.

She could leave the room altogether, maybe hide away in Lynch’s office, maybe take the winding underground hallway to the kitchen, maybe shelter in the servitor’s little room. She wants to run, wants to walk away, but it feels too much like abandoning Jarvis, so she stays, lies down on her side, back to the bathroom door. All she can see is his side of the bed, the off-white wall with the smattering of deep jagged holes left by the rigged frag grenade. She can pretend that is all there is, that the world is small, limited to this, if she tries hard enough.

It takes a while before she hears the whirr of the soap dispenser, the water running, the toilet flush. The door opens, closes. Jarvis doesn’t say anything, walks around the bed to his side, props the pillow up, sits down with his back against the bedframe. Once he’s settled in, he moves his hand towards her, lets it rest on the bed, palm up, within easy reach.

The minutes tick by before she moves, cautiously places her hand in his. His large fingers envelop hers and yet he says nothing, waits for her.

 _I love you_ , she wants to say, but that would be selfish. That would be trying to bind him to her, trying to prevent the conversation from continuing.

“Would you… would you be here with me if… if those psykers hadn’t…” she tries, fails to complete the sentence. Her mouth feels dry, heart is hammering in her chest again, hands beginning to tremble ever so slightly once more.

“What?” he looks at her, meets her eyes, looks… confused? Uncertain? Worried?

“If I wasn’t… If those psykers hadn’t… would you have even looked at me?”

He’s quiet for several long, dreadful seconds that never seem to end.

“Holly, I didn’t… I…” he sighs, rubs his face with his free unburned hand. “Look, having you close absolutely makes me feel… safer but, but that’s not… Was I happy when I learned that we had an untouchable on site? Yes, absolutely. Was that why I wanted to spend more time with you? No. No, I wanted to spend time with the pretty woman who smiled whenever our eyes met.”

I was only mimicking, she almost says. Doesn’t.

“You don’t ask the commissar to assign people to you just because they’re pretty,” she objects.

“Normally, if you want to get to know someone, you don’t have to go through the commissar to arrange that,” he points out. “And we really did need you on that mission.”

His hand still holds hers.

He isn’t pulling away.

He seems honest.

Perhaps it isn’t why he is with her. Perhaps her condition is just a bonus.

“Did you really think…?” he frowns. She moves to pull away the hand, but he tightens his grip, not so much that she can’t free herself, enough to let her know that he wants to hold on to her. “Holly? All this time?”

Holly yanks her hand away, pulls it close, rolls over, curls up, closes her eyes. Wants to run, wants to never talk of this again, wants to turn back time and never mention it. Feels stupid, vulnerable, exposed. She has revealed too much, knew it was dangerous, knew it would hurt, did it anyway. Thought it would be a different kind of hurt. This is better, she tells herself, but the embarrassment digs deep, stings in unfamiliar unpleasant ways.

She feels the mattress move underneath her as Jarvis comes closer, a warm hand on her back, gently rubbing soothing circles. He laughs, and for the first time she hates it. It feels like mockery.

“I think,” he says, voice a little unsteady. “I think we’re both idiots.” He is met with silence, stillness, so he presses on. “Babe? Come on. I can accept that you’ve got rubbish taste in men if you can accept that maybe I am a very simple man who can barely tell that you’re a little bit different anymore?”

She is an idiot alright, that’s for sure. Shouldn’t have said anything, should have let him talk, vent, explain. Should have left it at that, not tried to join in, to voice her concerns just because they overlap a little. Should have taken those thoughts to the grave.

Once he realizes that she isn’t going to respond to him he removes his hand, still sits next to her. She barely listens when he talks, asks her to ruin things further with more words. Asks to be let into her mind again. He grows quiet after a while, sits beside her in silence.

“Did I tell you that we’ve been assigned morning gate duty until further notice?” he eventually says. “We’ll be checking incoming and outgoing vehicles, but mostly sitting on our asses indoors.”

“I know,” she just about manages.

He pauses, lies down next to her, keeps his hands to himself.

“I think it’s going to be nice,” he goes on. “They’ve got heaters in there, so we’ll be nice and warm.”

“That’s good.”

“Thank you.”

Holly turns slowly, looks over her shoulder, sees him lying on his side, watching her. His left hand is there, waiting for her. His fingers move back and forth once, twice, gestures for her to come closer. She doesn’t, but she turns around to lie on her other side, to face him. Yet she keeps her eyes on his hand, a patient offer she cannot accept. 

“Hey?” he pauses, waits for her to look up, meet his eyes. “Did it become too much, or did I do something?”

“Both.”

He looks away briefly, nods, stubble making a scraping noise as it rubs against the pillow.

“Where did I fuck up?”

It’s Holly’s turn to be quiet for a moment, look away. He waits for her, knows it sometimes takes a while for her to find the words in unfamiliar situations.

“You didn’t have to laugh.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you?” he sounds confused, another pause follows when she doesn’t reply. “Babe?”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“You… you do know that sometimes people laugh when they’re nervous, right?”

She’s quiet, considers it, compares it to what she has been taught.

“People laugh when something is funny or they are happy,” she says, remembering her mother’s words as they sat opposite each other by the little kitchen table. She had been so small back then that her feet hadn’t touch the ground. “Or if someone tickles them, sometimes.”

“That’s… oh, sweetheart,” he sighs. “There are other reasons too. Holly? I’m sorry I upset you. I was just relieved, I think. Not because you were insecure, but… but because I wasn’t the only one?” Another pause. “Do you want to ask Wechsler or Lynch about the laughing?”

“No,” she says, but knows she probably should. Is still upset, annoyed, hurt. Is angry with herself for not knowing for certain, for another sore point being brought to the forefront. He is probably right, isn’t in the habit of lying to her, of being mean to her, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it. Doesn’t mean she has to enjoy being wrong, ignorant, bewildered. Foolishly exposing her insecurities only to have them so casually dismissed. Hates how simple human things are complicated to her. “I don’t like talking about… these things,” she tells him, keeps her hands close to her chest, arms wrapped around herself.

“I know,” Jarvis says gently. “But if we don’t talk then how will we know each other?”

“We were doing fine before.”

“We weren’t,” he insists. “You thought I was with you because of what you are, not who you are. That’s not doing fine.”

She doesn’t answer him, but meets his brown eyes unblinking, steady, confrontationally.

“And I evidently haven’t got my shit together,” he amends. “But if… If I promise to try to get used to the idea that you’re not with me out of pity or because you’re too nice to dump me, could you maybe try to accept that your condition isn’t a factor in our relationship?”

But it is, she wants to say. If she were anyone else, she’d know what to do, what to say, how to handle these sorts of conversations. If she weren’t an untouchable, she’d understand his need for these painful talks, maybe even be able to read situations properly, know ahead of time what is going on inside of other people’s heads.

“Hey? I’m really proud of you,” he smiles at her, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. She blinks, waits for an explanation. “I know this conversation became a bit overwhelming for you, but I appreciate that you’re trying?”

“I’m not a child,” she replies, frustrated with herself, annoyed with him for not pretending everything was fine. She could have pretended for years.

“I fucking hope not,” he counters, seems to think it’s a joke. Reaches out with one finger to stroke her arm for one, two seconds, pulls away again when he gets no response. “New things are hard though. There’s no shame in struggling. Shit, I struggle all the fucking time. I wouldn’t be here without my squad; they’ve been carrying me for the past four years. And the other night, you were far more patient with my bullshit than I deserve.”

It stings, hearing him sell himself short again and again. She scoots closer, sees his face light up, she closes the distance, buries her face in the crook of his neck. He wraps his arms around her, holds her close.

“Give it a couple of days and try to get used to the idea,” he tells her, “then tell me if it feels better or not.”

The fear abates, the anger ebbs, anxious nerves unwind as their routine continues. Very little has changed, she has to admit. The spell holds, even though it has been brought forth, examined in the unforgiving light, challenged, deemed a falsehood. Perhaps it is. Perhaps it always was.

Jarvis has more frequent nightmares now, almost as often as he did six months ago when he first started sleeping in her bed. Three out of the four nights that pass she wakes as he tosses and turns, clings to her in his sleep, wakes in the middle of the night. Yet it is not as bad as the one a week ago. He wakes, takes a moment, cuddles up next to her, is able to go back to sleep.

Seeing the psykers wander around the base, turning up unexpectedly, no doubt aggravates his anxieties. Yet there are two doors in the guard room where the 116th sit during their shift and wait until a vehicle approaches, always an available escape route. She hopes that it helps.

“That woman turned up today, unannounced,” he tells her on the fifth evening as he lights a lho-stick just after putting away his shoes. Smokes more when the nerves act up, she notes, doesn’t comment, only hands him the little plate, listens. “The blonde one.”

“Fannon,” Holly offers, remembers the psyker’s name. Remembers her face, her body type, her gait, the horrible, hungry, dangerous longing that overcame her features when Lynch laid out his offer to her.

“Yeah, probably,” Jarvis moves his lho-stick in small circles, the meaning of the gesture unclear. “Asked all sorts of questions, all polite and gentle like but…”

“She’s trying to help,” she says, pats the space on the bed next to her. He hesitates for a moment before sitting down, takes another drag of the lho-stick, blows out the smoke away from her, though she doubts it makes much of a difference.

“I’d prefer it if she helped elsewhere.”

“Commissar Varela speaks highly of her,” she tries, rubs his back. He looks like he is about to object, question the tall commissar’s judgement. Doesn’t. The guardsmen like her well enough. Punching a daemon earned her a not insignificant amount of respect, even if it cost her an arm. Holly has told him of her own interactions with the tall woman, that she has been polite, a little bit friendly even. Knows it influences Jarvis’ opinion. “She says Fannon is reliable.”

“Even so,” he insists. “She can go and dig around in someone else’s head.”

It isn’t quite what the psyker is doing, but perhaps there is some overlap. Still, she shouldn’t tell Jarvis too many details, it would be too easy for someone to pluck them from his mind when she is not there, be it Fannon or someone else.

Her hand trails up, starts playing with his hair, watches him pause with the lho-stick a mere inch from his lips, eyes closing. He puts out the half-smoked lho-stick, pushes the plate over to his side of the bed, lies down curled up with his head in her lap.

“’s nice,” he mumbles after a little while, wraps an arm around her legs. It takes very little time at all before he dozes off, the many nights of disturbed sleep catching up to him with ease once he allows it, lets his guard down, trusts her to protect him even in this room with only one exit.

Not just because she’s an untouchable, but because he trusts her as he trusts his squad. It does feel better, she has to admit. It is difficult to accept, but whenever she dares test it, try it out, it feels nice.

Wechsler is a little late the following evening, greets Lynch and Holly with a smile when she pushes open the door to the common room. Waits by the door even though she is technically allowed to step inside.

“Another girl’s night?” Lynch asks, looks at Holly, seems amused.

“It is that time of the week,” she smiles, rises from her chair, weight unevenly distributed onto her left foot, left hand lingering a little longer on the chair than the right. Has no doubt that Lynch was fully aware of the appointment, considering the routine, how unconcerned he acts, how tidy he still is.

“Have fun,” he raises his glass to Wechsler.

“I’ll forward your orders to the others, commissar,” the guardswoman grins.

“Not too much fun,” he amends. It is their usual exchange, different words, meaning more or less the same.

Anyone else and Wechsler would continue to talk, make jokes, probably pretend that unfortunately she didn’t hear that last part, perhaps escalate to a playful arm punch. Yet there are limits to how friendly she dares to be with Lynch, however tolerant he has proven to be of her humor. Knows that he allows it because she is Holly’s friend, because she keeps the exchanges to herself, shows him proper respect outside of their living quarters, much like Jarvis does.

Roth is waiting for them just inside the hallway, talking to the two guards posted there. Holly gives her a wave before she begins putting on the heavy winter coat, buttons up, digs the hat out from one pocket, the gloves from the other. The moment they step outside Wechsler hooks her arm around Holly’s, acts like it’s nothing, chatters away as they walk.

They step into the by now familiar mess hall with its flickering lights. A dozen or so Vostroyan guardswomen are already there, familiar faces even though Holly has only truly spoken with a handful of them. They have occupied a table, brought glasses and bottles, have already gotten started on the drinking but take a break to greet them, make room. The servitor is moving around the room slowly, dragging a yellow bucket behind it, mopping up puddles of melted snow.

A few of the usual faces are missing, sent on a mission they are told, expected to return in two weeks or there about. The plump medic Holly remembers from the excursion to region 27G is there, which is new.

“Medvedica, I heard you’re being moved to communications,” Wechsler says, leaning past Holly to catch the other guardswoman’s eye across the table and two seats further down. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she smiles, hands wrapped around a thermos cup filled with her usual sharp smelling tea. Her thick ash blonde hair cascades over her shoulders in a way that suggests frequent use of hair products not available on Eden 39. “I look forward to pressing buttons and sitting on my ass all day.”

There is a chorus of complaints that it isn’t fair mixed with what sounds like genuine happiness for their companion. Holly remains quiet, uncertain if it would be appropriate to join in, settles for a smile, fidgeting a little with her open coat.

“I’ll do my best to get fat to honor your jealousy,” the guardswoman laughs, clearly taking even the grumbling as well wishes.

“You better,” another of the women says, gives her a light shove. “Mard is going to be disappointed if you stay skinny.”

“The mute?” Wechsler asks while Roth wrinkles her nose. It is not how Holly would describe him. The lone Valhallan in the 472nd would be more accurate.

“He’s not a mute, he’s just quiet,” Medvedica huffs, evidently a topic that has been brought up before, seems unwelcome.

“Mutes tend to be,” she grins, evidently delighting teasing the other woman.

“He just knows when to shut up, which makes him infinitely more attractive than some people I could mention.”

“Hey!”

“Why would _he_ care?” Roth frowns, turns to Holly as if she knows more.

“I…” she blinks, looks across the table at the noseless woman, pauses as she sees the hand movements she is making. Left thumb and index finger forming a circle, right index finger repeatedly moving into the makeshift hole. “I suppose they are having sex?”

“With the cannibal!?” the girl exclaims, too loud, turns to stare at Medvedica. For once it isn’t one of Holly’s comments that brings the conversation to a halt.

“He didn’t have much of a choice,” the blonde Vostroyan says coolly.

“I… that’s kind of a choice,” Roth insists.

“Some like getting eaten, you know,” Wechsler leans her elbow on the table, waggles her eyebrows, defusing the situation somewhat at least.

“She’s still a baby, of course she doesn’t know,” the noseless woman pushes a small blue cup with clear liquid over to Roth.

“I- come on,” the girl sighs, but accepts the drink.

“Bleak?” she asks, gesturing with a bottle at Holly.

“Would you knock it off?” Wechsler says before Holly has a chance to answer, sounds genuinely irritated. “She’s told you she doesn’t like it three times already.”

“Sorry,” Holly manages, tries to smile but can’t help but to feel a little bit trapped in a confrontation she doesn’t know how to handle.

“I am not trying to be pushy!”

“Yet you are!”

“I ask so not to disappoint my mother’s ghost,” the noseless woman explains, doesn’t seem offended. Perhaps it isn’t a fight after all. “One offers to share with friends and guests, and I do not want to be haunted by the angriest woman that ever sat foot on a voidship because I forgot my manners.”

They are not guests, of course, the mess hall is available to all, so by process of elimination they have to be friends. The declaration leaves Holly feeling rather dazed, confused, grateful.

“Surely your mother’s spirit is with the Emperor,” she offers, can’t think of anything better to say.

“The Emperor will want some peace and quiet once in a while, so I highly doubt that,” Ilyina laughs, wiggles an empty chipped red cup ever so slightly in front of her. “Now, is it still a no?”

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” she says. Easy, casual, no offense taken. “Wechsler?”

“Please.”

“I think maybe we should invite Lynch to drink with us, show him a good time so he’ll stop sending us out to freeze our tits off, hm?” The gaunt woman with the heavy eyelids gestures at Holly. “You let him know, Bleak?”

“Don’t listen to her, she started drinking before dinner,” Ilyina rolls her one eye. Well, maybe both, but it is difficult to tell with the white one in the poor light.

“I don’t think he’d accept either way, sorry,” Holly smiles, tugs her open coat a little closer around her. The room is cold, but not freezing, too cold to remove her coat, too warm to keep it buttoned up. 

“Ach.”

“You know he’s sweet on the untouchable, you’d best not even bother.”

“What?” Holly stares at Ilyina, not sure if she heard her right.

“A man doesn’t throw himself between a grenade and someone for no reason,” she declares confidently, shamelessly, refills her own cup. “Especially not command.”

“I, that’s- That never happened?” she objects.

“I saw it with my own eye.”

The mission in the 27G region, must have been, Holly concludes. It is the only time she and Lynch have been in the field together, there was a grenade thrown, the Vostroyans were present. Still.

“That is not what happened,” she tells the other woman. “It might have looked like it, but that’s… no.”

“I saw what I saw.” 

“And you have half the field of vision of the rest of us and no depth perception,” Holly says, takes care to sigh, shake her head to indicate that she is not serious, not upset, but also that she doesn’t take the statement seriously. Ilyina does a tsk noise that is the closest she can get to a snort.

“Regardless, you’d have better luck with Kartal,” Medvedica says softly to the gaunt woman. 

“Eh, he’s… _old_ ,” she wrinkles her nose a little. “Lynch is easy on the eyes and not, how do you say, fucking mental?” she laughs, loud, shamelessly.

Next to her the round-faced medic looks absolutely horrified, her big green eyes wide and darting between her fellow guardswoman and Holly.

“I am not going to report what is said here back to him,” Holly says, tries to put the other woman at ease. It doesn’t seem to work, only makes her wraps her hands around her white cup, pull it closer to her chest, seem to want to disappear after being singled out. That was wrong then, Holly concludes, mentally kicks herself. Shouldn’t have said anything, should have let Wechsler handle it.

“Bah, he has a boy’s face,” Ilyina declares, rubs the scar where her nose once was. “I don’t think he can even grow a proper beard.”

“You shouldn’t…” the medic pipes up, sounds genuinely scared.

“She says she is not going to tell, she is not going to tell,” the noseless woman insists.

“I won’t,” Holly agrees.

“There. I said what I said. A beard would do him good, keep him warm if he won’t use Orlova’s thighs as earmuffs.”

Wechsler’s laugh is hoarse, as if she doesn’t have the air in her lungs for a proper laugh but still can’t contain her delight with the vulgarity. Roth looks absolutely mortified, though a number of the Vostroyans join in.

“Your man,” Ilyina says, gesturing at Holly, demanding her attention once more. “Why doesn’t he grow a proper beard? He evidently can.”

“I,” she hesitates, takes the plunge. “With the amount of time he spends between my legs he doesn’t need to.”

“Hah!” she slaps the table, seems pleased with the response even though Holly only smiles meekly. 

“You and your beards,” Wechsler rolls her eyes, evidently less amused once the conversation involves her cousin. “I swear, is that all you look for in a man?”

“If they don’t have a beard that I can run my fingers through, what difference is there to a woman?”

“I can think of one thing, at least,” Medvedica says, flipping locks of shiny hair over her shoulder, lowering her hand to her stomach.

“One thing worth my time,” she counters, looks back at them, pauses. “Ah, but I’m scaring the little one.”

“I’m not…” Roth begins to protest, gives up midway. They have been down this path before, more than once. They both know that it’s a losing battle for the girl, that excessive denials will lead to plump cheeks getting pinched.

“Before this?” Ilyina gestures at her face, the scar where her nose once was, the blind eye. “I was beautiful, put Medvedica here to shame.” Holly has no reason to doubt her, she has pretty big eyes, a lovely heart shaped face, full lips. “Men got absolutely painfully stupid if they thought they had a chance. I had plenty of opportunities to try whatever else men have to offer,” she adds, evidently for Roth’s benefit. “Never tried a single one that did more for me than a woman could.”

“I really didn’t ask,” Roth grimaces.

“Hah, no, but for the future, when you are not so little.”

“Hey! I’m not a child!” she exclaims, but her objection only seems to amuse the other women, who granted all have at least a decade or three on the girl.

Wechsler has abandoned the conversation entirely, has turned to focus on the group on her right. The conversation seems to be focused on a tale about fishing and the best way to gut the catch, so Holly turns her attention back to Roth, Ilyina, and Medvedica.

“Remember our first posting?” the noseless guardswoman says, gives her ash blonde companion a nudge.

“Hard to forget,” she rolls her eyes, sips her tea.

“This is going to be a story about an orgy, isn’t it?” Roth mutters under her breath, slumps down in her seat. Holly reaches out, pats the girl’s arm, smiles for her, hopes that it comes off as comforting.

“There were barely enough men left of the regiment we were meant to assist to have a proper sized orgy once we got there,” Ilyina says, though Holly is fairly certain she is exaggerating, teasing. “We were a month and a half late. Warp fuckery, I believe is the official term. By the time we got there, the worst of it was over and almost everyone was dead.”

“The survivors were fucking dicks though,” the woman on Roth’s left adds darkly.

The Vostroyans quickly begin to commiserate over old memories, some evidently more annoyed by the regiment they came to assist than others. Holly turns to Roth instead, keeps her voice down when she speaks, has to lean a little closer to be heard over the chatter but knows the girl doesn’t mind.

“Roth? Do you laugh when you’re uncomfortable or relieved?”

“Oh, yeah, all the time,” she grimaces, as if instantly remembering each and every unpleasant incident that bought an unwilling laughter to her lips. “Sometimes you end up laughing because you’re so uncomfortable that you just want the earth to straight up swallow you whole and it’s just not happening.”

“Oh,” she nods slowly, considers it.

“Did I do something?”

“No, it… it was Jarvis, I, I was just uncertain, is all,” Holly assures her.

“I don’t want to hear about your sexscapades,” Roth says firmly. “If that’s what this is about.”

“It is not.”

“Oh, well, alright then.”

“No, I was just taught… well, I suppose it doesn’t matter,” she smiles a little. The girl is about to answer when the group on their right suddenly raise their voices, shouting at each other over fishbones and what is and isn’t classified as a fish.

“What the fuck do you mean a hard plate on the underside?!”

“Oh, that’s an issue but your three jawed fish nonsense is not?”

“Fish have three jaws!”

“I don’t know anything about fish,” Roth tells Holly, as if divulging a most serious secret that must stay between the two of them. “I’ve seen fish products up close, those grey slimy balls, that’s about it.”

“I once saw fish in an aquarium?” Holly offers. They had been colorful, with long plumed tails that shifted in color as they swam as far away from her as they could. Tiny creatures, more tail than body, bred for appearance not food. Definitely not the kind of fish the others are talking about.

“Fish don’t have tentacles, what the fuck are you on about!?”

Roth and Holly exchange a look, the girl’s eyes wide, lips pressed together, but her eyebrows high, expression stiff. Not worry, Holly has to conclude, perhaps concern, maybe annoyance. She doesn’t ask, instead turns to listen to the noseless woman’s tale of how she has never traveled through the warp and gotten to the intended destination on time. 

Roth is yawning by the time they head back to the barracks, on freshly plowed paths. The snow is still coming down, though light and dry, will probably allow the guardsmen in charge of shoveling snow a bit of rest before the night’s second round. Barrack 19 is fairly quiet when they step inside, tidy even, Holly notes. Someone evidently decided that today was a cleaning day. They make their way over to the 116th’s beds, huddled in a group, towards the middle of the building. The building has been insulated, but it is not warm by any stretch of the imagination. Still, people feel comfortable enough to unbutton their coats on windless days.

“Look at you!” Singh grins, gestures with both his hands at Roth. “Walking on your own two feet!”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Where’s Jarvis?” Holly asks, notes that the bed that is technically his but typically left abandoned, blanketless, is empty.

“He called it an early night and left an hour ago,” Coleman says, scratches his striped beard.

“Closer to two,” Small corrects, lying in his bunk, blanket tucked tightly around him, heavy coat on top for extra warmth, back to them. The glow of a dataslate betrays that he’s reading rather than trying to sleep.

“Oh,” Holly nods slowly. That is fine, of course, she is tired too, is always tired after spending time with so many people. She just hopes that she won’t wake him up when she prepares for bed herself. “Well, I think I shall do the same.”

They bid each other good night and she heads out into the chilly outdoors again, feels the snow crunch under her boots. The world is washed in yellow by the floodlights, looks bright, clean, peaceful, deceptively so. If she pretends that she doesn’t know about the daemons, the mineral, the newly awakened psykers, the length of the winters, the thefts, the possibly compromised communication with the rest of the Imperium, she could understand how the planet got its name.

The night guards barely acknowledge her when she steps inside, wipes her shoes, hangs up her coat. She doesn’t mind, not anymore. Slips inside, finds the lights still on in the common room but no one is there. No sign of the carafe, Lynch’s glass. He must have taken them with him, she supposes, or the servitor has started its cleaning round early.

Holly turns off the lights, heads down the corridor, notes that there is no light seeping out from under the bedroom door. Jarvis must already be asleep. She takes care to open the door slowly, not too far, know it creaks a bit once it gets halfway open, slips inside the dark room, closes the door behind her. Walks silently along the wall until she finds the bathroom door, opens it readily enough, knows it to be silent, hinges well-oiled. Steps inside, closes it, turns on the light.

She sits down on the toilet seat, takes off her shoes, her jacket. Is about to pick up her toothbrush when she notes that Jarvis’ looks dry. Reaches out, tests it with her thumb. Dry, has not been used since this morning. Strange.

After a moment of hesitation, she cracks the bathroom door open, peers inside the room, tries to make out the familiar shape on the bed. The bed is empty. She opens the door wide, lets the bathroom light flood the bedroom. Empty. No shoes are propped up against the wall, no pile of clothes on the dresser, the bedsheets undisturbed.

Holly steps out of the bathroom, turns on the light in the bedroom, confirms that there is no sign of Jarvis having been here at all. The only puddles on the floor are fresh, from her own boots.

She turns off the lights, walks back to the entrance, the two guards standing by the door, clears her throat.

“Excuse me?” she says, sees them tense as they hear her voice.

“Yes?”

“Jarvis Eade, did he come here tonight?”

“Yeah, quite some time ago,” one of them says. He has a pale scar running across his cheek, parallel to the jawline, thin, likely caused by a blade.

“And he didn’t leave?”

“No, came, said hello, hung up his coat, went inside,” he says. “As usual.”

“Oh. Thank you,” she slips back inside, even more confused. Jarvis doesn’t wander their living quarters, knows he’s only really allowed in their bedroom, the path from there and to the front door.

Holly goes back to the bedroom, confirms once more that there is no sign of him having set foot in there, backtracks to the common room. Also empty. She continues further into the building, towards Lynch’s rooms. He might have seen him if nothing else.

The lights are on here too, but even before she reaches Lynch’s office she can hear deep voices carrying. She steps closer, takes care to be quiet, listens. Familiar voices, a familiar conversation even.

“-in-law nearly died so I stayed with them to help out during the night for the first months,” she hears Jarvis say. “She was such a grumpy baby. Colicky and would only sleep if you held her and walked around the entire time. Absolute nightmare,” he says with that intense fondness that always seeps through when he speaks of his niece.

Holly puts her hand on the doorhandle, knows better than to attempt to be quiet, knows it will creak, pushes it open. Lynch is sitting in his chair, turned away from her, facing the hard couch where she usually sits while she waits for him to finish the day’s paperwork. Tonight it is Jarvis who sits there, holding out his hands in front of him, close together, a big smile on his face.

“She was so tiny,” he says, glances at Holly. “Hi babe. I could fit her in my hands like this. And it was absolutely inversely proportional to how angry she was.”

“Oh, Holly,” Lynch turns around halfway. “Had a nice evening?”

“Yes,” she says, not having moved from the door opening. “I… why are you telling Lynch about your niece?”

“Uh…”

“Ah,” Lynch smiles when Jarvis hesitates. “I just mentioned that one of the guardswomen is five months pregnant, or there about. Zima let me have it for that one,” he adds with a theatrical grimace. “Kartal tried to mediate but she verbally eviscerated him, I almost felt sorry for him.”

“Oh.”

“She’s been very firm on the whole ‘this is not a daycare center’ thing,” he shrugs. “No patience for accidents, but these things happen. We’ll just move the mother-to-be to communications until the baby is born.”

“Uh, she’s going to need some time to recover afterwards,” Jarvis clears his throat. Lynch looks at him, blinks, confused. “It took my sister-in-law two months before she could reliably make it to the bathroom on her own, and she couldn’t even pick up her daughter during that time. If it goes sideways it’s going to be months before she’s able to even do easy tasks.”

“Oh, well,” he pauses at that, perhaps suddenly realizes why the blonde commissar doesn’t want the guardswomen to get pregnant in the first place. “I suppose I will leave that up to sister Sabrine.”

The carafe is standing on the desk, two or three glasses poured from it she’d guess. Sees Lynch’s glass in his hand, another next to Jarvis on the couch. There is no give in the stuffing so it can effectively serve as a peculiarly shaped table, she supposes.

“How old was she when you left?” Lynch asks, going back to the conversation with Jarvis as if he has answered her questions to a satisfactory degree.

“Two, just about,” Jarvis smiles, finishes his drink. “Stomped everywhere she went with this really serious frown on her face. We were dead sure she’d have wrinkles before she hit double digits.”

Lynch chuckles, seems genuinely amused by the description while Holly watches them, bewildered. Wrong. This is all wrong. Still, she waits while they talk a little while longer before they seem to silently agree that that is enough. Jarvis gets up, picks up his glass, seems to hesitate, unsure what to do with it.

“You can just leave it there for the servitor,” Lynch says, gesturing towards his desk. “Good night.”

“Good night, commissar.”

“Good night, sir,” Holly says, stepping back to let Jarvis out of the room. Jarvis slips an arm around her shoulders as they make their way back to their bedroom, seems to be in a good mood. “Are you going to take up babysitting?” she asks.

“I have sadly been informed that there are others better suited for the task,” he smiles.

“Why… why were you even in Lynch’s office?”

“Oh, well,” he clears his throat. “I did say I was going to get my shit together. I thought, hrm, well, I was informed by people who know me quite well that I’m being a self-sabotaging idiot.”

“I wouldn’t say idiot.”

“Mm, because you are very kind,” Jarvis smiles briefly before pressing on. “Either way, they let me have it. Mafalda… well, she told me that since you’ve chosen me and I think you deserve better, then it’s on me to try to become the partner I think you deserve, among other things.”

Mafalda, not Wechsler. A real heart to heart conversation then. Holly watches him as he smiles at her, quick, nervous, a little embarrassed perhaps. Smiles softly in return, says nothing, waits for him to continue.

“I took a couple of days to think things over and try to figure out how to do that, and, hrm, I decided that the first step would be acknowledging that Lynch has been more than supportive of our relationship. He could have put a stop to it day one for security reasons alone, and… fuck, the new bed was above and beyond, you know? So, I figured I’d thank him. We got to talking and it sort of spiraled from there.”

He opens their bedroom door, turns on the light, leans against the wall as he begins to take off his boots. She closes the door, goes to fetch her shoes and jacket from the bathroom.

“Babe?”

“Mm?” she steps back into the bedroom.

“I think… I think maybe we should put aside an evening or two a week for you to spend more time with Lynch,” he clears his throat. “If you want to.”

Holly blinks, unsure what to say to that. The silence seems to be enough to prompt him into an explanation.

“I’m not saying that having a friendly chat with the commissar isn’t fucked up and rubs me all kinds of wrong ways, but… I think he’s lonely. I mean, he’s still, you know, but… I think he can use the company.”

“You’re not worried I’ll leave you for him?” she asks, watches him grimace, sigh.

“There’s a little voice in my head that insists that you will see the error of your ways, but that little voice is also an absolute dickhead most of the time. I trust you,” he adds. “And… and if you want to break it off, then you should. I don’t want you to stick around because of guilt or some shit, however much I want you to stay.”

“Hey?” she says, stepping closer.

“Hm?”

“I’m proud of you?” she tries, hopes he doesn’t take it the wrong way.

“Oh ho,” he reaches up, pokes the tip of her nose. “Is it my turn to get huffy and declare I’m not a child?”

“I… I was in a mood,” she admits.

“I know,” he kisses her forehead. She slips her arms around him, holds him close, is quiet for a little while as she soaks in the ease with which he forgives her when she is being difficult, almost seems to like it.

“Is it Medvedica?” she asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” he nods, has no trouble following her line of thought as she jumps back to the pregnancy conversation. “Did she tell you?”

“No,” Holly admits. “But she always brings tea when we meet up, and Ilyina never offers her alcohol. She’s definitely known she’s been pregnant for longer than just now.”

“Oh ho,” he laughs, strokes her hair. “Keeping quiet until she’s can’t fit her clothes and is about to start to waddle? Sneaky.”

“Waddle?”

“It’s adorable, you’ll see,” he smiles, dimple showing.

“If you say so,” Holly allows. Pauses, considers his words as they undress, the conversation she walked in on. “Jarvis?”

“Yeah?” he looks up, hair on end from pulling his sweater off, a little bit of static electricity clinging to him.

“You should be the one to-” she hesitates, starts over. “Lynch doesn’t laugh with me like he does with you.”

He makes a strange noise, somewhere between a disgruntled disagreement and the involuntary squeak he does if she touches sensitive areas when her hands are still too cold.

“That’s on him,” he tells her, sounds almost offended, as if she has said something wrong. “You’re very funny.”

Just like that she loses her train of thought, feels the words she wanted to say slip away like water through fingers however tightly pressed together. A simple sentence, a statement, not even meant as a compliment, and yet. Leaves her feeling appreciated in a way she didn’t realized she hungered for.


	14. Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is half of this chapter written just because of “hold the line”? Look. I think a single line taken out of context is as good a reason to write smut as any.

The morning starts normal, ordinary, routine. Lynch is, perhaps, unusually quiet, focused on his dataslate, on reading missives that seem to elicit no particular response. Perhaps there are no real news, nothing worth the energy, but once he finishes his meal Holly begins to suspect that he has merely been biding his time.

He is quiet, lets her eat in peace for a while longer, before clearing his throat, requesting her attention. Holly complies, still chewing the thin slice of salted grox belly, looks up at him, waits.

“I don’t mean to meddle,” he starts, frowning. Worried? Concerned? Something along those lines. “However,” he presses on, knowing full well that he is about to meddle regardless of his earlier stated intentions. “Do you know how long Eade has been…” he puffs out his cheeks, blows air out of his mouth, opens his eyes a little wider in a manner that Holly cannot decipher. When it’s clear that she has no idea what he’s talking about, that he needs to spell it out to her, he tries again. “How long has he been under the impression that he’s got one foot in the grave?”

Holly grows still, too still it is true. Sees Lynch look her up and down, the discomfort on his face. She tries to blink, doesn’t know where to look, doesn’t know what expression is suitable for this conversation. Settles for looking at her food, hopes he can’t tell that she is coming up short.

“I don’t know,” she says, but she does. Corrects herself. “Four years, soon five, I think.”

It could be as much as ten, seeing his brother die in that first battle is likely still an open wound, yet it is fire that he dreams of, a psyker’s laugh that haunts him.

“That’s… a long time.”

Longer than the existence of the 472nd. Lynch is, at least, not to blame. Yet there is another side to such a statement, she knows. Guardsmen who break, who fail to recover from the horrors they have seen in a timely manner can still fulfill their duty to the Imperium as battle servitors. If their minds, their memories, their thoughts are the issue, those can be removed. The body altered, augmented, enhanced can be a valuable but disposable asset.

The thought of Jarvis reduced to such a pitiful state, to a creature, a thing to most, is nauseating. Jarvis still serves, still does his duty, still performs as required in the grand scheme of things. Yet he struggles, she knows, relies on his squad, on Wechsler and Singh in particular to ensure that their missions don’t fall apart if he does.

And yet. Holly remembers waterfilled eye sockets staring up at an uncaring sky, the corpse that had burst open and been left to rot in a murky pool of water. She remembers the damage the las gun did to their heads, the tattered psyker robes, Singh’s reluctant admission that it was Jarvis who shot them.

Whether or not it saved their lives, at the end of the day the kneejerk reaction to kill the psykers at the first sign of something not being right comes down to a fear Jarvis has yet to master. Five years is too long.

“Wechsler says he’s been doing better since…” Holly glances up, shrugs, looks down again.

“You’re good for morale,” Lynch says, she hears the smile in his voice though she doesn’t look up. He grows quiet for a little while, clears his throat as she sips the recaff, grimaces a little for him. Wishes it weren’t so bitter. “I, ah, had a little talk with him yesterday.”

“For two hours, I’ve been told,” she says. An agreement, but it seems to catch him off guard, appears to be an accusation of some sort though it was not intended as such. She quickly smiles, hopes it will lessen the unintended blow.

“That long? Ah, well, time flies?” Lynch clears his throat, seems a little embarrassed. “You, uh, you tell him that he can pay me a visit in the future if he needs to talk again?”

“I think he had a good time too,” Holly says, smiles, instantly realizes that it was the wrong thing to say when Lynch’s shoulders stiffen, his face becomes a clean slate, his eyes look away from her. “I mean, I will.”

“It’s purely professional,” he tells her, picks up the dataslate again.

“Of course,” she agrees quickly, too quickly it seems. It does not smooth things over, Lynch doesn’t even look at her, doesn’t acknowledge her words. She picks up her knife and fork again, tries to not worry that she has ruined something, quickly discovers that it is a losing battle.

Lynch is less talkative than usual during the day, seems to warm up to her once more as evening creeps closer. He greets Jarvis with the typical casual ease, almost shoos them away from the common room with his wishes for them to have a good night. It feels a little uncomfortable bringing it up, but she tells Jarvis what Lynch told her during breakfast, dutifully. Unlike the commissar he does not seem bothered by the invitation, the suggestion that they talk again.

The next day the awkwardness is seemingly forgotten. She takes comfort in that, how Lynch seems to forgive her missteps, mistakes, misunderstandings. Doesn’t bring them up again, water under the bridge.

A couple of weeks later she sits with the Vostroyans again, watches Medvedica show off her new jacket. Oversized and ill-fitting, made for a man significantly larger than her, larger than Holly can even imagine the other woman becoming. It reaches down to her knees, is almost a poorly made dress with rolled up sleeves that seem determined to slip down over her hands. 

“No one makes pregnancy clothes for guardswomen,” she declares with an easy laugh, twirls around to show how loose it is on her frame. Her ash blonde hair is almost molten silver in the harsh light of the mess hall.

“A wasted opportunity,” Wechsler smiles. “How’s communications treating you?”

“Don’t tell the commissar,” Medvedica says, looks at Holly when she does so, but her tone is not accusatory. Conspiratorial, perhaps. “But it is _so_ tedious. It’s me and eight nerds who wouldn’t be able to run a single lap even if held at gunpoint, have no interest in small talk, and none of them trust me to push buttons or take notes properly.”

She buckles her belt around her waist, grimaces as she has to angle it a little around a softly swollen stomach, tugs the jacket sharply, tries to make herself look presentable despite her circumstances. She isn’t waddling when she walks, Holly notes, not yet at any rate but there is a budding discomfort in her movements.

“If they are being difficult you can always try arm-wrestling them into submission,” the noseless guardswoman suggests, sounds amused.

“That is not the solution to every interpersonal problem.”

“Punching is also effective,” Wechsler smiles.

“Or a knife,” Holly offers, takes care to smile gently so that they know she is speaking in jest. Mostly. A knife in the right place solved most problems she had before Eden 39.

“All very fine options,” Medvedica acquiesces, holding up her hands. “But none of them is going to help me when I have to go back to Taggart and ask for bigger shoes in the not-so-distant future.”

“She found you bigger clothes already,” Roth points out. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

“I would not be so certain, she gave the me this too,” she says, reaches into her pocket, struggles to find the bottom, pulls out a handful of condoms and slams them onto the table. “I definitely pissed her off.”

Wechsler positively cackles, loud, unabashed, a little bit too delighted with the barely veiled insult. The other women have a good chuckle, somewhat more restrained, while Roth stares at the little packages before awkwardly joining in with the rest. Holly only smiles, is caught off guard when offered to take them, complies though she has no real need for them.

When she returns to her living quarters, she finds Lynch and Jarvis in the common room, two glasses on the table, both in a good mood. Lynch has not unbuttoned his shirt or rolled up his sleeves, but he has discarded his coat just as Jarvis has thrown his jacket over the back of her chair. She is quiet for a while, listens to Jarvis talk about how isolated the farming villages were back home, of the single bus that would drive out to them once every other week that connected them to the rest of the planet. Hears the longing in his voice.

Lynch spots her by the door, waves her in, welcomes her even though her arrival will spell the end of their get together. Holly complies, walks over to her chair, leans down, kisses the top of Jarvis’ head, makes him laugh. They linger a little while longer as Lynch tells Jarvis of a great-grandfather who helped reclaim a planet for the Imperium. Of how he settled down there, amongst the wreckage, how the planet was rebuilt over generations on top of the ruins.

“That place had been rebuilt so many times that there were at least eight layers of more or less abandoned previous surface levels,” he says, a smile on his lips. “The third layer and above were still stable, with an underground train system that spanned almost the entire planet. I used to fantasize about stepping onto one of those trains, together with the factory workers, and see the world.”

“Sounds like the only view you’d’ve gotten would’ve been a dark tunnel,” Jarvis points out.

“I had a child’s imagination,” Lynch freely admits. “And I didn’t know anything about tickets or regional passes, which was probably for the best because I made a spirited attempt at it when I was six. I got caught by an old crone who refused to accept a family name as a fare.”

A lone child is an easy target, Holly knows. There is a reason her mother armed her as soon as she could walk somewhat reliably. Warned her of the danger of strangers, of acquaintances. Had a very short list of people it was safe to trust, a slightly longer one of people that could be expected to assist if asked.

“You made it home safe?” she asks, can’t help but to note that his lack of common sense, of caution appears to have been an issue his whole life.

“Of course,” he shrugs. “Granted, I was more or less ransomed back to my parents, but the worst the railway workers did was offer me some of their foul soup.”

“You could have died,” she says, struggles to wrap her head around how he has even managed to survive into adulthood some days.

“Oh, yes, probably,” he agrees readily enough, as if it is of no consequence, as if the past is irrelevant. “The soup was revolting. We got a new nanny after that debacle though. It was a shame; she was a nice girl. I never really liked the second one.”

He looks at the last of his drink, swirls it once, twice, finishes it. Smiles when he puts down the glass. Jarvis seems to understand what is coming before Lynch says the words, before he gets up from the couch.

“Good night.”

“Good night, commissar.”

“Good night, sir,” Holly adds, trailing a little behind.

Jarvis’ hand finds the small of her back as they return to their bedroom, rests there as they walk, seeming to savor the touch. He knows she is too tired for sex after spending hours struggling to fit into the group of women that have afforded her the luxury of their company, their friendship, yet there is a need for intimacy, of touch, of affection still. Even so she refrains from kissing him on the lips until after they have brushed their teeth, not wanting to taste the alcohol a commissar has no business giving a guardsman on his lips.

A storm rages the day a voidship appears in the sky, the hull seemingly pitch-black against the grey clouds. It is too small to be one of the Black Ships, its shape suggests a cruiser, likely belonging to a merchant or a rogue trader. Holly stands next to Lynch as they squint up into the sky, shoulder to shoulder with the tall commissar and the colonel. Neither of the women are pleased with the sight.

“We are not expecting another delivery for another four months,” the colonel points out. The scar that runs from the corner of her mouth up along her cheek moves peculiarly when she talks and grimaces at the same time.

“The navy let them through, things should be in order,” Lynch says, but his voice lacks the typical cheerfulness an extra delivery of supplies should entail. Perhaps even he can sense that something is wrong.

“Or they slipped through and didn’t expect to see the ground crawling with military personnel,” the older woman counters. “They might be here for… other reasons.”

“They might just be here for the bronze,” the tall commissar says, loud enough that even the wind that tugs at their coats fail to muddle her words. “Might be that they haven’t been informed that production has been disrupted.”

“I would be more comfortable if we at least prepared a welcome,” the colonel says, eyes on the dark shape hanging above them. Lynch makes a vague humming noise, which almost sounds like an agreement.

The other commissar turns, looks directly at Holly, raises one dark eyebrow. Seems to expect something from her. She cannot possibly believe that one untouchable is much of a defense against a possibly hostile voidship, so Holly has to conclude that her opinion has been requested.

“It is possible that they have been trading with the locals under the table,” she suggests. “The mineral might be very valuable in the right hands.”

“Mm, good point,” commissar Varela nods, seems satisfied with the input. Holly catches Lynch smiling however briefly before mastering his face again. “I know we are ill equipped to handle aerial bombardment, but I have to agree with you, Oswick. Offer one hand, arm the other.”

Lynch does not argue for once, seems mostly pleased that his fellow commissar actively included Holly in the conversation, valued her judgement. Holly trails after him as they go about the day, trying to organize a hopefully unnecessary ambush as the first shuttles brave the wind, the snow, the unknown, begin to descend to the landing zone. The guardsmen are driving back and forth across the designated area in snowplows, desperately trying to clear it of the snow that stubbornly keeps falling sideways. By the time the first shuttle lands there is, at least, only a thin surface layer.

There are numerous crates of equipment unloaded, each meticulously labeled, stamped with the Imperial Guard’s winged skull or the aquila. Paperwork is produced, tech-priests and scribes alike summoned. A request for food, fuel, clothes, ammo, spare parts for weapon repairs fulfilled.

The strange ship’s clerk, an unusually short and hairy man with a runny nose, looks decidedly put upon when he is told that this shipment was delivered five weeks ago, delayed at that, that this order is a duplicate. His mood does not improve when he is told the date, realizes that he and the rest of the crew have lost months in the warp, are late for an appointment at a planet two stars over.

Lynch welcomes the man inside while the shipment is unloaded, offers him a warm room, a drink, a friendly face. While the little man accepts it is clear that he is still in a poor mood as he sits in Holly’s chair, ignores her presence altogether as the two of them talk. She watches him wipe his nose with his hand eight times before he deigns to blow it on a filthy red handkerchief, knows her mother would have been beyond irritated at the display. Is not thrilled at it herself.

“We’ve been paid half,” he says as Lynch refills his glass, a distinct whine to his voice. “We were meant to get the second half after confirmation of delivery. I’ve never had any serious problems doing runs for the Munitorum before this, but we’re going to get stiffed on the other half, I just know it.”

“Ah, but you did deliver the goods,” Lynch offers.

“Delivered goods you weren’t meant to have,” he objects, sinks further into his seat, abandoning both hope and posture. “I’d take it with us, but we need the space to haul textiles from Hyranax to Aveenium.”

“I take it that is far?”

“Edge of the sector,” he sighs, sniffs, rubs his nose again. “And we’re going to get chewed out for being late and halting production for sure.”

The little man stays for a couple of hours, lamenting the lot the Emperor has bestowed upon him. Holly cannot help but to note that Lynch seems to enjoy talking to someone new, listening to problems which in no way affect him. He tries to offer words of comfort here and there, but is rebuffed every time, the other man determined to be in a foul mood. By the time they escort him back the wind has picked up, but the snow has let up a little at least. It is already dark, but all the crates and promethium cannisters have been logged, hauled into their respective storage units, allowing the people in charge to finally retreat from the cold.

The little man double checks that they have been given all the necessary signatures before he shakes Lynch’s hand, grumbles a little bit about his navigator’s abilities, steps into the waiting shuttle. It takes off a little unsteadily, struggles with the winds for the first part of its journey, before disappearing into the dark.

“You know what this means?” he asks Holly, tugging at his hat, trying to keep the wind from stealing it.

“What?”

“We’ve got fresh fruit for the men again,” he smiles, bright, genuine, as if it really matters to him. “It’s been a while. The dried and canned goods will do in a pinch, but with no sunlight for weeks on end they are going to need the real deal.”

She nods, understands, appreciates that he cares even though they eat better food than the guards, are not directly affected themselves.

When they return to their living quarters, they bid each other good night, go to their separate bedrooms. Holly finds Jarvis waiting for her, warm and willing to endure her cold body pressed against his with only a few displeased grunts. She soaks in his warmth as they tell each other about their day, is warm by the time they kiss each other good night, grow quiet, drift off to sleep.

In the morning Holly watches Lynch as they eat, but his eyes are firmly glued on the dataslate, has no time for her. He chews slowly, forgets his food only to return to it suddenly. By the time he has finished his meal she is almost done with hers. It comes as no surprise then when he tells her that their presence has been requested, that something isn’t quite right with yesterday’s delivery, that the quartermaster wants a commissar or four to run things by.

Lynch takes her out to the storage buildings with their steep-sloped roofs in search of the giant quartermaster, seems to walk a little bit faster than usual. She matches his pace, though he still glances back at her every now and again, as if uncertain if she is still there. The cold bites deep today, so she supposes that is why. It becomes difficult to tell that she is close when the weather is colder than her aura, at least for a non-psyker.

The quartermaster towers over the rest of the men, the red hair enough to make her stand out in a crowd, the height turning her into a portable landmark. The giantess spots them long before they reach her, asks the two commissars already present to hold their questions for just a moment.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” Lynch says, smiles in a manner that could be considered friendly, but it is clear that the blonde commissar takes it as a jab. Her brown eyes narrow, her pretty arched lips press together as if she has tasted something sour.

“Not by much,” commissar Varela says, either oblivious to the exchange or determined to ignore it. Their breath comes out as white puffs of air when they speak, reminds Holly of Jarvis’ lho-sticks.

“Punctuality is a virtue,” the blonde commissar says. She is only a little shorter than Holly, of perfectly average height in truth, but between the quartermaster and the tall commissar she seems closer in stature to the visiting clerk of yesterday. 

“Quite!” Lynch sounds delighted at being given an opening to further needle the woman. Commissar Varela takes a deep breath, holds her tongue, seems to find something in the distance to occupy her attention while her coworkers bicker. “Those poor traders. Two months lost in the warp, can you believe it? It is a fickle mistress, hm?”

“A necessary evil,” comes the curt reply.

“Isn’t it just? Why-”

“Kartal is here,” commissar Varela tells them, though not as tall as the quartermaster she can still see above the heads of most guardsmen milling about and a commissar’s hat is easy to spot even in a crowd.

Lynch mercifully relents, busies himself with brushing an imagined speck of dust from his epaulette as the old commissar approaches them. The quartermaster guides them further into the building, limping ever so slightly as she walks, tells them that there were three crates that were not part of the requested materials. The items in question have been placed on the floor, side by side. Three large wooden crates, the aquila stamped upon the side in fading ink alongside three letters and eight numbers.

Though the building is not quite empty it might as well be. There are a handful of guardsmen present, operating machinery to move large crates up onto tall, sturdy shelves, only codes revealing what they contain. They might be able to see what is in the crates once opened, but the whirr of the machines will at least mask most of the conversation.

“Letters from home,” the quartermaster declares, patting the wooden lid of one of the crates with one massive hand. It is a large crate, Holly notes. It could probably hold six, maybe eight corpses if you stacked them right, depending on the size of the people. They look worn though, it has to be said, as if they have gathered dust for some time. “I thought it best to consult you before I crack them open.”

The old commissar makes an appreciative noise, Lynch seems to genuinely perk up, though Varela frowns. What the blonde commissar thinks of the find Holly cannot say, her face doesn’t seem to move in the slightest, no words pass her lips.

“They will certainly be appreciated,” the old commissar says, clears his throat. “After review.”

“Of course.” There is a stiffness in the quartermaster’s reply, perhaps a reluctance to keep communications from home away from the regiments.

“There are three crates, but four regiments,” commissar Varela points out. “Which one is out of luck?”

“The register didn’t say, but,” the quartermaster grabs a waiting crowbar, forces it in between the lid and the box with practiced ease. It creaks dreadfully, nails bending, old wood cracking. The smell that spreads out is strangely musty, paper, dampness, old smoke perhaps. She heaves the lid off to the side, lets it clatter onto the floor, no doubt wanting to inspect the price herself, hopes of news from a life long since left behind.

Underneath are rows upon rows of bundles of letters wrapped up in thread, a couple of the tidy bundles have come loose during transit, the letters lying bent and crumbled on top and in cracks. Others are merely rolled up paper held together with string, awkwardly pressed in among the envelopes. What is apparent to all six of them at a glance, however, is that the letters are old. Too old.

“Motherfuckers,” the giantess growls, glares daggers at the offending papers.

Frowning Lynch reaches out, picks a loose letter from the pile at random, pries dried and yellowing glue open with minimal effort. The letter inside has fared a little better than the envelope, but not much. His shoulders sink as he lets out a deep sigh, looks at the envelope again.

“Letters to Arsinoe’s 43rd grenadiers,” he informs the rest. “Dated fifty-one years ago.”

“That seems about right,” commissar Varela grimaces. “You didn’t tell people there were letters, I hope?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean others haven’t figured it out,” the quartermaster says, sounds more than a little bitter. They look at letter after letter, vainly hoping that at least some will be intended for one of their own regiments. The other boxes are opened, the results are the same, the dates when they were sent is the only thing that varies. If the Arsinoe 43rd served on Eden 39 and were allowed to settle then the correspondence might hold some value to their descendants, but they are no longer here either.

“I suppose we can burn them for warmth,” the blonde commissar offers in an uncharacteristic attempt at positivity in the face of adversity.

Holly’s eyes explore the box, the discarded lid, the contents, as the rest express their frustration with the letters. The nails are shiny. New. Replaced while the wood is old, possibly fifty-one years old, left to be forgotten in a storage somewhere. Until now. She clears her throat gently, manages to catch Lynch’s eye, raises one eyebrow, nods at the boxes. He looks confused for a brief moment before turning around and inspecting the content one more time. Pulls out a bundle of letters, throws it on the ground, another follows, another.

“Commissar?” the quartermaster frowns as Lynch continues to dig.

“I think he’s finally lost it,” the old commissar says, cheerfully. A joke, perhaps.

“Hah!” Lynch exclaims, bent over the box, an uncomfortable angle no doubt considering the size of the thing, the wood digging into his torso. There is a dull tapping noise before he stands up straight, looks more than a little pleased with himself. “Come on, Taggart, help me clear this rubbish.”

Piles upon piles of letters that once would have been treasured are thrown upon the floor, discarded, ignored. A foot and a half underneath the letters is a false bottom, a thick wooden sheet that proves difficult to remove. Holly stays put, waits, doesn’t want to be too obviously involved, already knows what lies below.

The wood finally surrenders to the crowbar with a loud crack, breaks, the remains discarded on top of the letters. Rows upon rows of carefully bundled off-white cardboard boxes, stacked upon one another, packed tight with strips of grey cloth serving as padding. Inside the boxes, neat rows of plastic and glass bottles labelled with ridiculously small script.

Lynch looks at Holly while the quartermaster squints, tries to make out the long, unfamiliar words written on their smuggled cargo. Thirty, sixteen, five. Assistance required, medicine, end of message. Her inquisitor is watching, for better or worse.

Messages are being sent, but the content is being monitored, altered, censored, not unlike what they intended to do to the letters before giving them to the guardsmen. Peculiar, she thinks. Why not simply strangle all communication?

“You should probably tell sister Sabrine that her delivery has arrived,” Holly tells Lynch, smiles softly. He responds with a smile of his own, wide, genuine, relieved.

“Was this one of your ideas?” commissar Varela asks, looks at him. Her tone somewhere between dubious and accusatory.

“I’ve got contacts,” Lynch declares, smoothly taking credit, shielding Holly from suspicion. “And when our sister hospitaller asked so nicely for my assistance, I could hardly refuse, could I?”

“One would hope that you’d use those contacts to get the job done, not try to impress a woman,” the blonde commissar says sharply. If anything, it makes Lynch’s smile even wider. The scowl is evidently the only reward he needs from the other commissar, and admittedly the only reaction he gets before she turns away, calls the sister to inform her that they have something of interest to her.

By the time the wide door opens to allow the sister entrance the other commissars have left, half a dozen guardsmen are stacking the smuggled goods into smaller, more manageable boxes on carts, the quartermaster has another three helping her write down exactly what the Emperor has blessed them with. The hospitaller’s red and white robes are damp and powdered with fresh snow when she walks through the large storage door. Her step is quick, hurried, excited as she makes her way to the little group and the rows of stacked boxes.

“Is that medicine?” she asks as she walks past the guardsmen, past Holly, pretty dark eyes focused on Lynch.

“Do I ever disappoint?”

For a brief moment it looks as if the sister is about to throw her arms around him, but she composes herself, nods before holding out a hand.

“I don’t think I can make it happen a second time,” he warns her as he shakes it.

“Then we will do our best to make the most of this delivery,” she nods, briefly glances over at Holly, practically beaming, the sternness of their previous interactions having melted away. Holly returns the smile, bows her head a little, looks away. “Taggart, inventory, now!” The sweet tone she used with Lynch is gone in an instance, replaced with a sharpness that betrays the military core of even the hospitallers.

“We are working on it,” the quartermaster grimaces. “You’ve got to give us a little time to do our job.”

The response is a frustrated sigh but no argument, though the sister wastes little time getting involved in the unpacking. Holly watches as the dark eyed woman grows increasingly excited as she reads the labels, is privately relieved that the general request seems to have provided them with what they genuinely need.

Lynch excuses himself, gestures for Holly to walk beside him as they leave. She complies readily enough, steels herself as they step outside into the cold again, the sharp gust of wind like a slap to the face.

“I could kiss you,” Lynch says, leaning towards her, holding up a finger. Holly isn’t sure what to say to that, barely remembers to blink as he goes on. “That was better than any number of letters, and a lot less paperwork,” he says, glances over at her again, seems to realize his error. “A figure of speech, Holly,” he assures her, though his cheeks flush a little.

“Of course,” she says, manages a quick almost smile. 

“I take it you can’t repeat that trick?”

“We could try, but a code is best when used sparingly,” she says. There are different codes, of course, she has learned several favored by the inquisitor by heart, but the number based one is the easiest to slip past the unsuspecting.

“Save it for an emergency then,” he agrees. “You know, Holly, between the fruit and the medicine, I think we might start to get people out of that damn hospital. This might really turn things around.”

“I hope so, sir,” she says, refrains from pointing out that they have made little progress in regard to the thefts or the enemy for quite some time. Perhaps the enemy will hibernate, the winter too long and harsh to cause trouble. If that is the case perhaps all they can hope to accomplish is recuperate, recover, wait for spring or psykers to provide them with more information, whichever comes first. Either way, it is evident that Lynch needs this small victory, so she holds her tongue.

Upon returning to the office, cheeks flushed red, nose tingling, teeth chattering, Lynch finds that the paperwork has refrained from doing itself in his absence. Makes a half-hearted joke that she should help him fill out the copies, assures her that he didn’t really mean it when she asks. She is a bodyguard, not a scribe.

“Perhaps Zima had the right idea of it,” he sighs, glaring at the papers in front of him. “She’s had that Hummel at her beck and call for ages.”

“You could acquire a scribe,” Holly points out.

“Mm,” he almost agrees, but the tone suggests that there is something unsaid that makes him unwilling to do so. Security reasons, hopefully. Improbably.

The rest of the day is slow, quiet, warm. Most of it is spent in the office, Lynch grumbling, scribbling, sighing. Holly sitting quietly on the hard couch, waiting. For what she is not quite certain of anymore. A threat, in theory. In practice she is only left with a lot of time to think about things both important and frivolous.

As evening approaches she excuses herself early, Lynch not having requested her attention in well over an hour. He does not object, bids her a good night, takes out his dataslate, evidently about to procrastinate the moment she steps outside the office door. 

She retreats to her and Jarvis’ room. Tidy, save for the little plate on the floor by the too large bed, the uneven cuts in the walls, the floor, the dresser. The room as a whole has changed a lot since her first month here. She puts her weapons away in a neat row, hangs up her coat, folds her shirt, her pants, places her socks, her underwear on the pile of clothes intended for the laundry. Everything is in order. For now. Jarvis has never bothered to fold his clothes, and she doesn’t expect him to start any time soon.

She waits naked, feeling the uneven texture of the old rug under her feet. The chill of the air on her olive skin. There is no one here so she need not move. It’s nice. Relaxing. The kind of behavior her mother loathed.

She hears his footsteps as he comes through the long hallway. Heavy boots on hard floors. She can hear the uncertainty in his gait. Normally she and Lynch sit in the common room, greet him there as he enters through the antechamber. Tonight, the common room is dark, she knows, only a soft light to guide anyone moving through it. Judging by the lack of light seeping through the edges of her door he hasn’t turned up the light to see better. Perhaps feels like an intruder despite sharing this bedroom with her for almost a full seven months.

“Sweetheart?” Jarvis calls out, knocks on her door, once, twice. “Are you in here?”

He opens the door slowly, as if he might not be welcome if it is empty. As if it is not his room just as much as it is hers.

“Hi,” she says, smiles. Shifts her weight to lean noticeably more on her right leg.

“Hey,” he smiles, seeming relieved. “I thought…” he pauses, glances down at her nakedness, back up at her face. “Hey,” he repeats, a little lower, a little surprised, pleased.

She gestures for him to come closer. He steps into the room and closes the door behind him, never taking his eyes off her. When he reaches for her she steps back, shakes her head.

“No,” she keeps her tone light. “Not tonight.”

His hand retreats, and she steps forward. Begins to undo his jacket. Looks up at him, smiles.

“You don’t touch me,” she tells him, getting up on her tiptoes to brush against his chapped lips. The tip of his nose is a little cold from the poor weather. “I touch you.”

He chuckles, nods. Watches her as she undresses him. She trips around him quietly, tugging his jacket off his shoulders, bushes his neck ever so gently, watches a shiver run down his back when she gets it just right.

“May I kiss you?” Jarvis asks once she’s freed him from his thick sweater. His hair stands a little on end.

“You may kiss me back,” she says. He lets out a sigh through his nose, sounds a little frustrated. Holly can see his hands twitch, move a little towards her as she unbuttons his shirt. He likes touching, likes being active, the one doing. “But I draw the line on touching me. If you touch me, this stops.”

The hands clench, unclench, go limp at his side. Obedient. She gives him brief kiss, runs her fingers over his still clothed chest, presses herself close. Delights in the way he looks at her, the way his jaw clenches as she brushes a hand low, ghosting over his groin. Yet he remains still.

She purposely proceeds slowly, watches him swing from excitement to frustration and back again. When she kisses his hand the fingers twitch, she stops, looks up at him. Finds him biting his lip and looking firmly past her, over her head, at the empty wall. She slips a finger into her mouth, runs her tongue along it, sucks gently. Watches him grit his teeth, meets her eyes.

“You’ve become a terror,” he informs her. She responds by releasing his finger with a pop. Smiles wide enough to show teeth. Doesn’t worry if it looks natural or not.

Six minutes later Jarvis is completely naked, standing on the red and white carpet with her pressed up against him. Her breasts flatten against his torso as she embraces him, kisses his collarbone, sucks on his earlobe, feels his cock twitch against her. He is standing almost at attention, hands clasped behind his back, while she explores him at a leisurely pace. Her hands slide around him, down, brushes past his hands and squeeze his ass. She watches the corner of his mouth twitch before leaning in close, brushing her lips against his neck, pausing to take in his scent, bites him gently, a little harder. Kisses the mark she leaves on his skin. Pushes away memories of tearing flesh with her teeth, the taste of Eldar blood in her mouth, the taste indistinguishable from human blood. Hears his soft sigh, not screams of terror and pain.

Her hands travel up his sides, feels ribs, soft skin, uneven scars.

“Hey,” he whispers. She obliges, looks up at him. A soft smile, his eyes on her, her lips. Wants a different kind of contact, wants to interact. She gets up on her toes and moves to kiss him, turns away at the last moment, presses her lips against his cheek. Tastes the skin. Sinks down on her feet again, kisses his throat as he swallows, feeling his Adam’s apple move under her tongue.

She takes a little step away from him, lets the cool air in between them. Runs her fingers slowly over his chest, down his stomach, slowly, slowly, slowly. Feeling muscles and fat, bone hidden under skin, trailing hair downwards, memorizing angles and old scars with her fingertips. Turns her eyes up to meet his as she finally sinks down, breasts brushing his cock as she kneels and gently strokes him, her touch light against the silky-smooth skin. His arms tense and his lips part as she takes him in her mouth. The familiar salty taste of pre-cum greets her tongue as she runs it over the head. She releases him slowly, licks the head again and again, the saltiness disappearing altogether, before sucking on it, no more than the tip, her hands on his thighs. Hears him whimper a little, lets it slide out from her lips again.

Holly watches him as she strokes him, the little knots in the rug digging into her knees, leaving dimples in her skin. Loves the way he looks at her, with equal parts warmth and hunger. She rises slowly, still touching him, leans in against his side, nuzzles her face against his. He meets her and when her lips touch his he kisses her greedily. She allows it for a few seconds, too short for him, she knows. Leans back, he tries to follow and she turns her face away. He sighs, nose a mere inch from her face. Not touching. She smiles and strokes him a few more times, watching his face, before withdrawing altogether.

“On the bed,” she says, nodding towards it.

Jarvis’ tense shoulders relax a little, takes care to step around her as he does as he is told, so not to even brush her by accident. She watches him climb onto bed, scoot over to the middle before lying down, pats the mattress next to him. She tilts her head to the side, raises one eyebrow.

“Right, right,” he says and moves his hands up under his head. “Better?”

“Mm,” she agrees, quite enjoying the view as she climbs onto the bed, nudges his legs apart and sits down between them. Leaning forward she ignores his cock, even as it touches her face when she plants kisses on his stomach, short nails making red crescent moon patterns on his thighs.

“Holly, please, you’re fucking killing me,” he groans as she once again just brushes his cock only to focus on his stomach again.

She looks at him, lips slightly parted, vulnerable underneath her. She could kill him. The thought bursts into her mind unbidden, unwelcome, unexpected. In this state it wouldn’t even be difficult despite the size difference. Close, exposed, trusting.

 _Never_ , she promises herself, bites the delicate skin above his groin ever so gently, more lips than teeth, before kissing a trail towards his cock. Gives it the softest of kisses before climbing up to lie down half on top of him, wraps a leg around his, nuzzles her face against his neck.

She feels his arm move to pull her in but stop. She smiles, reaches down to stroke him slowly again, almost absent-mindedly as they kiss. There is no denying that she is wet and aching, she wants more, she does. He does too, and yet. Yet she stays there, enjoys the taste of him, the gentle nibbles on her swollen lips. The warmth of him. Wants him to touch her but won’t allow it, not yet, not tonight. Instead, she relishes in being given control so freely, so readily.

Finally, she pulls away, climbs up on top of him. He seems to think that the wait is over, that the slow teasing is done with. She smiles at him, lowers herself and moves her hips along his shaft, trapped between her and his stomach. He feels so much warmer against her groin than in her hand. As she grinds against him, she feels his hips bucking underneath her. She reaches down, presses down on his hips, his stomach, looks up at him. Summons a degree of sternness to her voice, the tone reserved for addressing psykers.

“Hold the line, guardsman.”

He lets out a strangled groan as she moves a little again. She can see his fingers flexing, feel his body shift a little under her, though he tries not to. She leans forward, hovers over him, places her hands on either side of his head.

“Do you want to stop?” she asks. Tone gentle, though if her true feelings seeped through as easily as others’ do, she would be pleading. She wants it just as much as he does, but not yet, not quite yet.

“No,” Jarvis says, firmly though she can tell that what he really wants is to take charge. To fuck her into the mattress so hard that the bed starts creaking. The notion has its merits, she must admit. “Please.”

She runs a finger down his nose, dips down to his mouth. His lips part and he welcomes her, runs his tongue along her fingers, mimics how she sucks on him. It is a pleasant sensation and her fingers comes away wet with saliva. Still kneeling above him she absentmindedly brings them to her own lips, lowers herself over his hips again. Feels the brush of his erect cock against her ass, stabilizes herself on her hands and knees on either side of him, watches his face as she moves against him.

She rubs against him, kisses his face, his ear, his neck. Slowly makes her way down, collarbones, pecks, stomach, navel. Finally, she takes him in her mouth again, slowly works her way from the head to the base, listens to his groans. Tastes her on him. Proceeds to lick along the shaft, long and slow, wraps her lips around him again, listening to how his breathing changes, when his hands need to hold on to something.

He says her name, strangled and with a hint of desperation. Holly looks up, meets his eyes, acknowledges that she has heard him, cups his balls, caresses gently, works the shaft harder. He comes with a familiar groan, she swallows the hot liquid, the taste lingering as she administrates to him until the last wave of pleasure recedes. Sits up, pushes her hair out of her face, looks at him looking at her.

“Permission to touch you?”

He’s still breathing heavily, sounds amused. She meets his eyes, licks her lips, nods. Jarvis wastes no time pushing himself up, pulling her in for a kiss, pulling her closer, squeezing her ass as he does so. The bed shifts under them as he pulls his legs in under him, grabs her by the hip and yanks her towards him, her legs go up in the air, she bounces against the mattress, lets out a little gasp, delighted. He’s known for a long time now that she doesn’t giggle, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t expect her to, recognizes the noises she makes in their place well enough.

He practically descends upon her, hands and mouth grabbing, kissing, squeezing, biting, licking, stroking. As if trying to make up for lost time as quickly as he can, trying to do everything he wanted to but wasn’t allowed all at once. It’s a whirlwind of sensation, leaving her dizzy by the time he sinks down between her legs, begins to eat her out as if he has been starving for years.

After tormenting them both for so long it takes no time at all for her to start to teether on the edge. One leg trapped, a large hand pressed against the back of her upper thigh, close to the knee, holding her in place, she tries to wrap the other around him, feels the uneven scar tissue of his arm, his back, against her foot. A small whine escapes her lips, she can hear him chuckle, feels how he redoubles his efforts. Her hips buck against him, awkwardly and uneven under his grip, she feels the fingers of his other hand sink into her right thigh, holding on to her as she squirms. Her back arches, gasping breaths come quick, sharp, short nails dig into the sheets as his tongue pushes her over the edge. 

As she lies breathing heavily, he relaxes his hold on her legs, lets her lower them onto the bed, onto him. Feels his tongue prod and taste her for a while longer, finally kisses her, disentangles himself from her legs, joins her at the foot of the bed. She happily accepts the kiss on the lips, the little pecks that follow, snuggles up against him. Likes the feel of his arm around her back, her arm wrapped over his stomach.

“Absolute terror,” Jarvis says, with mock seriousness, can’t hold back the grin. She responds by giving his chest a squeeze, not unlike how he squeezes her breasts, smiles, is rewarded with a snort.

“If you didn’t like it…”

“Oh no, don’t even try it,” he presses his lips against the tip of her nose, begins to pull away. She reluctantly gives him space to reach for his discarded jacket, watches him light the lho-stick, reaches down to pick up the little white plate, pointedly hands it to him as he gets back into bed. He accepts it without comment, lies down, puts it on his stomach. She makes a displeased noise, prodding it.

“We’re having one of those days?” he asks, moving it up to his chest. A more awkward angle for him. She doesn’t care, wraps herself around him, right leg trapping his, hands moving across his stomach, down to where she can feel his hipbone, traces it with her fingers.

“Yes,” she murmurs into his shoulder, gets a chuckle in response, hand in her hair, fingers rubbing her scalp. She closes her eyes, relaxes into it, smells the acrid smoke of the lho-stick.

“That crack looks like a grox’s hindquarter, tail and all,” he says after a while. She opens her eyes, looks up at the ceiling, sees only the thin line, spread out like lightning, crackling and dividing.

“I don’t see it.”

“That part,” he gestures with the lho-stick, traces a shape that looks like nothing. She squints, moves her head, tries to see what he sees.

“Mm-m.”

“I suppose I have spent more time looking at grox asses than you.”

“I think you have spent more time looking at asses than I have just in general,” she tells him, watches the crow’s feet deepen, the dimple become visible, is rewarded with a brief laugh.

“Probably,” he agrees, takes a drag, looks at her. “I’ve seen more than my fair share of commanding officers.”

She blinks, amused, buries her face in his chest. Wishes she could laugh. His chest and stomach tenses, once, twice, three times, a silent chuckle. Pleased with his own disrespectful joke, certain she likes it too. Doesn’t need her to confirm, massages her scalp a little firmer, softer again.

“I’ll refrain from tattling to Lynch.”

“Thank you, I’m not sure he’d appreciate that I’ve been looking at his ass.”

She looks up at him, manages to pull together a frown, not sure if she gets it right, but it makes him laugh, having to steady the plate before it slides off him, spills ashes on the sheets.

“You’ve spent too much time with Coleman,” she informs him, pushing his cheek with a single finger. He gives a little, head moving away under the pressure but not much.

“Undeniably. And not a day goes by when I am not grateful that you have brought me out of the barracks,” he says, putting out the little stump, kisses her forehead. “If I never have to lie awake again, desperate for sleep, and forced to listen to someone beating it and thinking he’s being stealthy about it…”

“I am sure you were very quiet yourself,” Holly says, pats his stomach.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side,” she points out, still lying half on top of him, runs her fingers along his ribs. He gives her a look, she smiles, watches him roll his eyes. A huffy sigh before putting the plate down on the floor. Well. Dropping it to the floor. He remains lying in bed, she hears the clatter, doesn’t comment. Sounds like it survived the short drop. He gives her ass a pat, once, twice.

“You’re just lucky I like your ass better than the commissar’s.”

“Mm.”

“It _is_ a very nice ass,” he adds, giving it a squeeze. His hand stays there, squeezes again, one finger after another, watches her flesh give way to the pressure.

Holly wraps her arm around his broad chest, the other under his shoulder, angling herself a little bit more on top of him, squeezes. It is almost a hug. He returns the gesture, wrapping his arms around her, presses her tight against him for one, two seconds. She meets his eyes, sees him smile, returns it with one of her own, almost effortlessly.

“Love?”

Her heart skips a beat, or at least her mind freezes for long enough that it feels that way. She looks at him, knows that she will give him anything he asks for, waits for him to say what he wants. It is just another pet name, she knows, and yet, and yet…

“Can we do exactly this,” Jarvis gestures at her, draped over him, “except with pillows and under the cover?”

A small and insignificant request. She disentangles herself from him, complies with his wishes, promptly lies down on top of him once he has made himself comfortable. He chuckles, pulls the cover over them both, reaches up to play with her hair.

“It kinda looks like a commissar’s hat from this angle,” he informs her once the silence has stretched long and comfortable. She blows air out through her nose, against his neck, doesn’t turn to look.

There are patterns in his burn scars too. She traces them with her fingers, the patterns, the muscles underneath the skin. Feels the rhythm of his heartbeat against her chest, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Repeats the word in her head over and over again.


	15. Prosthetics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bonus [visual summary](https://zenatness.tumblr.com/post/642847711278809089/i-wasnt-going-to-participate-in-the-oc-kiss-week) of the first 14 chapters.

In the name of keeping the guards posted by the gate irregular, the 116th are sent on yet another perimeter check, just for a handful of days this time. Holly tries to make do, refrains from climbing the buildings that are slick with ice hidden under snow. Now that groups of guardsmen have to spend every morning knocking down long icicles to prevent potentially deadly accidents during the day, it feels too much like endangering someone out for a late walk. Instead, she sits with Lynch in the common room, listens to him talk, can tell that he enjoys having her undivided attention.

It is already fairly late in the evening when Jarvis voxes her, lets her know that they can see the base in the distance. He sounds happy, upbeat, a little off but perhaps in a good way. Asks her if she can meet them by the main gate. She can hear there are words he wants to say to her, words that are better suited for their bedroom than sitting shoulder to shoulder with his squad in the back of a Centaur.

“I’ll ask,” she agrees, as Lynch looks at her, seems almost smug. Has evidently figured out who is calling her, has an idea of what she is going to ask. “Sir, they’ve returned. May I have the rest of the evening off?”

“Of course, but tell Eade I want a report too,” he says, though the request doesn’t sound urgent. Can probably wait till morning unless the squad came across something concerning.

“Thank you,” she smiles for him, shows just a hint of teeth, looks down, away, back at him as she gets to her feet. “I appreciate it.”

Holly just about reaches the front gate by the time the Centaur rolls in. Wechsler gives her a wave from the driver’s seat through the tiny window as she goes by. She follows in the vehicle’s tracks at a casual pace as it rolls into the outdoors parking lot, comes to a halt. The 116th exit, even from a distance she can tell that they are in high spirits. Roth jumps out, arms held wide, a big smile on her face as she lands in a foot of soft untouched snow. Acts the child she pretends she isn’t.

While Wechsler hands the vehicle over to the foreman, provides a quick rundown of the journey, the rest of the squad greet Holly underneath the warm glow of the floodlights. They talk excitedly amongst each other, clearly relieved to be back. Jarvis smiles when he sees her but doesn’t close the distance.

“I desperately need a shower, love,” he says, squeezes her heart ever so gently with a single word. “We’ve been cooped up in there for days with a dead rat.”

“It was squished right flat!” Roth informs her, with perhaps a little bit too much enthusiasm.

“It must have been a real quick death, getting squashed between a chair and the wall like that,” Singh adds. A peculiar place for a rat to die, it must be said.

“We were fucked out of ideas where the smell was coming from until Small spotted a little foot sticking out.”

“Paw,” Small corrects Coleman, demure, a little withdrawn. His skin seeming paler than usual, almost on par with the snow. Tired, she has to conclude.

“It was really, really disgusting screwing that shit open and peeling it out,” Jarvis huffs, evidently not as excited about flattened rodents. Wechsler joins up with them, a bounce in her step.

“It came out mostly whole though.”

“Keyword there is _mostly_ ,” he grimaces, leaving no room for Holly to wonder who was in charge of scraping dead rat out of their vehicle.

“It was also mostly dried,” Roth points out.

“Again, mostly.”

Holly steps closer to give Jarvis a peck on the lips, freezes as she leans in, sniffs his clothes. Sweat, grease, smoke both fire and lho-stick, intermingled and marinated with rot.

“Yeah, I did say,” he smiles apologetically, but leans down a little when she gets upon her toes regardless, accepts the kiss happily enough.

They tell her of their trip, the snow, the cold, the few stops along the way as they head towards barrack 19. They say nothing of anything unusual, any sign of the enemy.

“This was the least eventful outing we’ve had for the past year and a half,” Wechsler grins at her. “It was great!”

“The most exciting thing that happened was when Roth almost hit the only tree stump for miles,” Singh sounds delighted, pats a suddenly very cranky looking Roth’s back. “But she’s gotten really good at driving, that incident aside.”

“I hope you shit yourself,” the girl counters.

“I hope I get to use the shower upstream from you in that case.”

“We basically sat in the Centaur and talked shit for almost a week,” Coleman tells her. “It was like a vacation.”

“A smelly one,” Small adds from the back of the group, significantly less energetic.

They are greeted by a half-empty barrack once they step inside. Once every bed was full, now too many stand vacant, the ones closest to the door abandoned in favor of sleeping further away from the draft. Too many dead, too many injured. The 116th put away their equipment, gather clean clothes, towels.

“The showers are fucked again,” a woman with the shortest teeth Holly has ever seen says.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Again?”

“No warm water for two days,” a thin man with a bandaged hand on the bed next to her says. “Bit spotty on the pressure too.”

“You can use ours?” Holly offers, sees how Roth instantly perks up, shoulders straighten, smiles brightly. It has never run out of hot water before, though admittedly there are only three people who use the showers in the building so there is no guarantee that there’s going to be enough for all six of them.

“Really?”

“Yes,” she nods. “Lynch won’t mind.”

“Mhm,” the woman with the short teeth looks at Jarvis pointedly, as if there is quite a lot she would like to say but just barely keeps to herself. He meets her eyes, holds her gaze until she looks away, busies herself with her shoelaces.

“I for one appreciate not freezing my ass off,” Wechsler declares, grabbing her clothes and towel. “Chop chop, people!”

On the way to Holly’s living quarters the 116th tell her in great detail about the rat and how the tech-priests are evidently rushing things a little bit too much when they adapt the vehicles to the cold weather. The fixation on the rat is almost comforting. How uneventful, how tedious and dull must the journey not have been that that is what they want to tell her about.

“They can come in,” she tells the two guards by the front door of her shared living quarters.

The two of them exchange a look, full of meaning, hesitation, concern. The man clears his throat, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“Sorry, but uh, we’re going to need the commissar’s word on that,” he says. The lho-stick situation is evidently common knowledge or has at least been passed around among those who guard their front door. She supposes that is fair. Jarvis, on the other hand, is met with no resistance, exchanges a greeting, slips right past.

“I’ll try to be quick,” he assures his squad. “But no promises.”

“Stop bragging!” Wechsler shouts after him as he hurries into the antechamber, disappears from view. “Pff. I’m second in line, just so we’re clear.”

“In your dreams,” Singh says.

“Don’t make me pull rank.”

“Don’t make me pull stench.”

The smell is quite noticeable now that they are in a small, enclosed space, though Holly has no doubt that it must have been even worse inside the Centaur. After a bit of grumbling between the two guards, the guardswoman with the closely cropped hair agrees to be the one to accompany her and hear Lynch’s verdict with her own ears.

Holly nods, not about to argue. Could point out that she should technically stay by the door, that she is leaving her companion alone with five people they are refusing entry. Poor odds if push came to shove. Instead, she wanders inside, finds the common room empty but for the abandoned carafe. There is no sign of neither glass nor commissar.

The other woman tenses as Holly lead her further into the building, evidently not comfortable paying a visit to Lynch’s private quarters. She watches the guardswoman from the corner of her eye as she guides them past the dark office, knocks on the commissar’s bedroom door.

Lynch opens the door surprisingly promptly, shirt rumpled but hair still in order. Looks at her, evidently confused, even more so when he sees the guardswoman who looks ready to bolt.

“What is it?”

“The,” she stops herself before she refers to them as the 116th. “Eade’s squad wants to use the shower. The guards need your approval before they let them in though.”

Silence.

“Why do they need my shower?”

“My shower, sir,” she clarifies. “The warm water is acting up again.”

“Ah. Yes, sure, good night.”

“Good night, sir,” Holly smiles as Lynch closes the door, turns to the guardswoman who looks a little pale. Evidently has a very different relationship with Lynch than Holly or even Jarvis does. “Is that good enough?”

“Yeah, yes,” she nods, quickly turns around to flee back to the safety of her post. Holly follows, keeps the pace, her steps silent while the other woman’s boots thumps against the wooden floor.

She shows her friends to the bedroom she shares with Jarvis. The room is too small to comfortably fit a group this large, but she lets them in regardless, moves the chair up against the wall. It is the first time they see the room, have evidently not heard much about it judging by Roth’s reaction upon stepping inside.

“You’ve got a double bed?!” she exclaims, both hands gripping the bedframe. She looks like she wants to lie down on it and roll around in the space, but just about manages to restrain herself.

“Well,” Holly says, looks at the bed, back at Roth again. “Lynch decided we needed it.”

She sees Wechsler and Singh exchange a look, is about to ask if it was something she said when she suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder. She blinks, looks up at Coleman, his face struggling to stay serious but doing a very poor job at it. 

“Yeah, ok, privacy, heating, warm water, your own bathroom, double bed? I don’t care what kind of kinky shit you’re into, if you get bored of Eade, I’ll take his place if I get to sleep here instead of the barracks,” he says. Wechsler reaches out, smacks him over the head.

“Evidently I’m first in line,” she tells him, gives Holly’s shoulder a light slap with the back of her hand. All in jest, of course, and yet.

“I think I rather stick to Jarvis.”

“Rejected,” Singh says in a singsong voice while grinning at Wechsler. They are in good spirits at least.

“I’ll just go see if it can find some more shampoo,” Holly tells them. The bottle is almost empty, good enough for a day or two, won’t be enough for all of them.

She slips outside, finds Small a couple of feet outside of the room, leaning against the wall, looking at nothing. He looks up at her when she stops. She isn’t sure what to say, but quite certain that she should say something.

“They’ve been noisy almost the entire day,” he tells her with a sigh, mercifully taking the lead.

She nods. Understands. Too much noise, no way to get away from it.

“Can you help me with the shampoo?”

“Mm? Sure?”

Small follows her quietly, two feet behind her. For once it is she who has a shadow. This silence is different though, not like with the guardswoman. Comfortable. He is tired in a way she understands. Though they don’t know each other very well it is still well enough to know that neither thrive in loud environments. That the other understands the value of silence.

By the time they return the energy in the room has mellowed out somewhat. It is clear that the long day is making itself reminded, however relieved the squad might be at returning without a single incident. Coleman has claimed the chair, but only Jarvis is sitting on the bed, in a fresh pair of pants and a clean sweater. Singh and Wechsler are standing, seem to take care not to touch anything while still grimy. She appreciates it but doesn’t comment, puts the bottle of shampoo and extra towels down at the end of the bed for them.

The conversation has continued in their absence, though it seems to be mostly Wechsler and Coleman who are chattering about the last time they had a good night’s sleep, in what seems to be a competition in both how great the sleep was and how long ago since it happened. She feels Jarvis hand on the small of her back, how it slips to her waist, nudges her to sit down next to him. She complies, scoots a little closer yet, puts a hand on his thigh, leans against him.

“Better?” he asks. She gives a cursory sniff, nods. He smells like himself, like soap and shampoo, is still damp but warm and more importantly here. With her. Alive, unharmed, happy.

Roth slips out of the bathroom, wet but clean, wearing fresh clothes and carrying a bundle of laundry in her arms.

“Next!” she declares. Takes a seat at the end of the bed, tests the give of it, seems a little disappointed that it is quite firm.

“It was snowing too damn much to set up camp outside, so we slept on the floor in a pile, more or less,” Jarvis tells Holly. “Except for Small.”

“Yeah, I don’t understand why you choose to balance on the seats like that,” Singh says, pulling off his sweater, shirt, undershirt, all in one swift motion. Too big for him, but then that appears to be the regimental standard, too big or too small. “It seems like murder on the back.”

“I don’t like it when people breathe in my face,” the medic frowns, scrunches up his mouth and nose in a grimace.

“I thought it was kind of cozy.”

“Blech.”

“Hey, Bleak,” Singh tosses her something small, she catches it without thinking. A necklace, a simple disk of what is probably steel, two fingers wide. She looks up at him, tries not to notice the wide scar low on his stomach, shiny and several shades paler than his dark skin. Tries not to think of a foot of intestine removed, too damaged to be expected to heal.

“Well, at least the colostomy bag wasn’t permanent,” she remembers Wechsler telling her the evening she dared to ask if Singh had told her the truth about his sister stabbing him under the influence of a psyker’s mind control.

“Keep it dry, yeah?” he says, snapping her back to the here and now.

She only nods mutely, turns it over in her hand. The string is leather, worn, has broken at least once if the knots are any indication. The disk is uneven in thickness, the center imprinted with the aquila. The craftmanship is mediocre at best, but it no doubt holds great sentimental value. It feels warm, evidently worn close to the skin.

They linger for a while even after they have all showered, seem reluctant to leave, to return to the cold barracks. Holly is a little overwhelmed having them all so close, frequently talking over each other, but doesn’t usher them out. Likes having them here, though it is cramped, their dirty clothes smell, they have tracked in mud, pebbles, quickly melted slosh.

By the time they start to file out Singh’s hair has mostly dried. The room is warmer than it’s ever been, the little fan in the ventilation whirring. She smiles as they bid them good night in the hallway, return to the bedroom, close the door. Looks down at the horrific mess that the filthy shoes have made of her previously quite clean floor. There’s hardly an inch of it that isn’t dirty, too many people moving about in too small a space.

The two of them brush their teeth in a bathroom that feels more like a sauna. It seems there was enough warm water for all of them at least. Jarvis wipes the fog off the mirror with his hand, inspects the bags under his eyes with a disgruntled sigh, evidently doesn’t like what he sees. Can’t see what she does. She reaches for his sweater, pulls it over his head, drops it onto the toilet lid as she sets to work on his shirt.

“Hey, hey,” he says, big hands reach down to envelop hers. “Can we just cuddle tonight? Tell me about what you’ve done while I’ve been away? I’m really sorry, I’m just beat. I’ll make it up to you?”

Holly looks up at him, tries to read his expression. Hesitant, tired, apologetic? Not upset, at least. She nods, doesn’t let go of the shirt.

“You have nothing to make up for,” she tells him. “It’s enough that you’re here.”

He squeezes her hands, smiles, looks at her with those lovely brown eyes. She isn’t sure but she thinks she sees something akin to relief in his features. As if she’s unwittingly said something he really needed to hear.

“I still want to undress you,” she tells him, enjoys the chuckle it garners.

“Go ahead,” he says, releasing her hands.

Holly tells him of the two meetings, one with all of command and the other consisting only of the four commissars, of how Lynch was merely mildly annoyed after he left the meeting room the second time. She tells Jarvis that she has refrained from climbing buildings as she kisses his chest, talks of long days watching Lynch fill in paperwork, of the old commissar coming over for a social visit.

“I don’t think Lynch likes him very much,” she says as she unzips Jarvis’ pants. It isn’t that Lynch picks a fight with the older commissar. Yet he doesn’t laugh much at the other man’s jokes, doesn’t offer up personal experiences, doesn’t encourage Holly to join into the conversation even though the old commissar talks to her all the same. “He’s nice to me though.”

“Mm,” Jarvis reaches up, scratches his chin. The stubble was already a bit on the long side when he left, now threatens to become a grey speckled beard. It doesn’t look right on him, just like it doesn’t look right when he’s shaved everything off. Still, she should say something nice.

“Ilyina would probably like your beard,” she says.

“Hm?” he blinks once, twice.

She shrugs, looks away, doesn’t want to say that she likes it when she doesn’t.

“I, I make one joke about Lynch’s ass and-?” he laughs, reaches up, caresses her cheek. “There’s no need to be jealous, babe. I’m yours.”

“I’m not jealous,” Holly assures him, isn’t. If anything finds his reaction peculiar. “Either way, the commissars sat a couple of hours and chatted over a few games of regicide. Seemed to have a reasonably good time.”

She finishes undressing Jarvis, holds him for a little while there in the bathroom before relenting, letting him go. He wastes little time making his way to his side of the bed, evidently having missed it. Lets out a heartfelt groan as he lies down on the bed, deep, strangely final. Lies still on his back, as if it is his time to abandon control of his body.

“You sound like an old man,” she tells him as she begins to undress.

“I’m becoming an old man,” he informs her. “Will you get the light when you’re done?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, doll.”

“No.” The word passes her lips quickly, firmly, before she can even reflect on whether or not it matters. How easy it is to say it, here in this room, with him.

“Hm?” he turns his head to look at her, a frown on his brow. She has never rejected a pet name before. “Not doll?”

“No.”

“Babe? Sweetheart? Love?” he offers instead, a return to the tried and true. She nods at that, discards her underwear on the sizable, smelly laundry pile. “Why not doll?”

She grows still for a second, slowly reaches for her nightgown, doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t want to go into detail, doesn’t know how much is enough, how much is too much. Is afraid the two is going to overlap.

“It’s… just something a man used to call me,” she says as she dons the nightgown. Though describing a tech-priest as a man is admittedly generous. How many parts must you remove before you are no longer what you once were? Replace the body, keep the mind, the soul? Are you still the same? Still human?

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

No, she doesn’t want to tell him about being locked in the servitor room for hours on end, begging to be let out, giving up, going to sleep in a corner in a room full of misshapen, mangled once-people. Waking up to the glow of the goggle-like ocular augmetics, the static voice that somehow conveyed delight at her surrender. A test, he had called it. The kind of treatment that would have made her mother see red, she had known even then, but still hadn’t protested. No. Telling Jarvis of such things would only upset him, there is nothing to be done about the past, about the decade and a half of similar stunts whenever the tech-priest’s path crossed hers. 

“Alright,” Jarvis readily agrees, doesn’t push it further, pats the mattress. “Come on.”

Holly tiptoes over to the light switch, pauses. Looks at the floor, tries to memorize how she must walk to make it back to the bed without stepping in a puddle, turns off the light. Perhaps she should ask Lynch for a bedside lamp, but that seems like a luxury, like asking for too much.

She climbs into bed on her side, wipes the sole of her feet quickly, tries to ignore the grimy feeling of knowing the room is dirty even if she can’t see it. Crawls in under the cover, reaches for him, finds his hand. He brings it closer to his face slowly, presses his lips against her fingers, the short beard tickling her skin in an unfamiliar way.

After a short moment she hears him grunt, move onto his side, come closer. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her a little towards him, kisses her neck. She doesn’t know much about how to care for wooden floors, but she suspects that leaving muddy water to dry on it is not recommended. Another tired sigh. His arm is heavy on her stomach, his beard prickle her a little even through the nightgown, his breath tickles her cheek. She didn’t put the chair back in its place either, now that she thinks about it, but she doesn’t want to drag it across the filthy floor either, that is just going to make things worse.

There is a pause, he pulls away a little. She has been unresponsive, she realizes with a start, regrets it instantly, doesn’t want him to think that his touch is unwanted.

“Are you upset about the floor?” Jarvis asks in the dark, sounds a little amused. Knows her perhaps a little too well. Evidently she was looking too intensely at the mess.

“Yes,” she admits, hears him chuckle.

“The servitor will clean it up in the morning. Come on, come closer.”

“I think maybe I should-”

“No, please, it’s late,” he leans his face against her shoulder. “Come on, babe. I’ve missed you. And the bed, but mostly you.”

It takes a not insignificant amount of effort, but she rolls onto her side towards him, finds his lips in the dark. Hears him make a small, pleased noise, feels his hand at the small of her back, rubbing gently. How she has missed his touch.

They snuggle up under the covers and yet she can’t relax. He traces the curves of her body as if he’s trying to refamiliarize himself with her, memorize the shape of her. Suddenly stops.

“Are you still thinking about the floor?”

“Yes,” she confesses. Only now realizes that she has been still, passive, unmoving.

“Ok,” he pulls away from her, sits up.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting up to clean the floor,” he tells her, sounds annoyed. No, not quite. Somewhere between annoyed and amused. She hears him hiss as he steps on something, a pebble probably, turns on the light. Holly scoots towards the edge of the bed, gets out, tip toes across the mess to the bathroom.

It doesn’t take long, cleaning up the worst of it with paper and already dirty towels. Feels better once it’s not clean, not truly, but cleaner. No longer wet, the worst of the mud tidied up, the rug folded on top of the laundry pile. They wash their hands and feet, turn off the light, go back to bed. She is about to apologize for not being able to let it go when he kisses her forehead, pulls her close again.

“I’ll tell them to wipe their shoes better next time,” he promises her. Doesn’t call her silly.

“Thank you,” she says. For helping, for understanding, for being patient. For coming back to her. She wraps an arm around his chest, feels the familiar unevenness of the scar tissue, the sudden smoothness where the skin grafts start. Wouldn’t change a single thing about him. 

Well.

“Jarvis?”

“Mm?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

The response is a long, tired, very much annoyed grunt that ends on something that vaguely sounds like agreeing mhm.

“Not tonight,” she assures him, strokes his chest.

“Alright.” Words return once he has been assured that he doesn’t have to get out of bed again.

“In the morning, could you please shave?” she asks. “You look really weird like this. Not bad,” she adds quickly even though he snorts. “Just… different.”

“I’ll shave, babe, promise,” Jarvis assures her, fingers lazily caressing her thigh underneath the covers. “Can I sleep now?”

“Only if you kiss me first.”

The better part of a week passes. The 116th return to guarding the main gate. Lynch spends an entire morning wandering around the full storage units with the quartermaster. Once they finish inspecting the third building Holly starts to get the feeling that he is less interested in the supplies and more in quizzing the giant woman. No more boxes have gone missing, equipment is stored where it is supposed to be. Perhaps the changes in routines have helped after all. 

It snows again during the night, thick, wet, heavy. After breakfast Lynch postpones the paperwork again, brings her out on a casual stroll around the base. Holly trails after him, shivering underneath layers of clothing, wishing they would stay inside, however dull the office might be.

“If it continues snowing at this rate, we will all be buried underneath it,” he tells her. She hopes he is wrong about that but is starting to worry.

“How long do the winters last here?” she asks. It feels like a question she should have asked a long time ago, but then it felt like winter to her when she first arrived here. Lynch is quiet for a moment, makes her wonder if he didn’t hear her, if she should repeat herself.

“Between nine and thirteen months,” Lynch says, just as she opens her mouth to ask again. “If I remember correctly.”

“Oh.”

She makes peace with the idea that the cold and snow is as good as never-ending on Eden 39 during the morning. Accepts that the only comfort she can hope for here will be found indoors, that the sun may be just as elusive as back on her home planet though for different reasons altogether.

By lunch, her mind begins to wander as she sits quietly in the office on the hard couch, watches Lynch write, read, stare at the wall, the ceiling. It does not wander far, she has to admit. Jarvis managed to convince Small to acquire lube for them when they got back to the base, though the medic was evidently a bit annoyed to get dragged into their sex life, however indirectly. She revisits memories that are still fresh, toys with desires briefly tasted, turns the experiences over in her head, rebuilds and elaborates new fantasies from them. Has a pretty good idea what she wants to do tonight by the time Lynch lets out a deep groan, stretches, rises from his chair.

They relocate to the common room, she settles into her chair as Lynch opens the cabinet, takes out the drink. She accepts the glass, appreciates the gesture if not the alcohol itself, watches him make himself comfortable on the couch.

It is clear that the morning’s exchange has stayed on his mind, that he has grown increasingly aware of what such an excessively long winter will entail, cannot find it in himself to just accept it. What starts as grumblings about his posting shifts to the past with a little prodding from Holly. The rest of their evening is spent telling her about a previous posting, a significantly warmer planet that once had lovely beaches. Ruined by the time he arrived there, of course, what with the war and all, but he assures her the weather was fantastic.

“Granted, the tan I got was decidedly uneven and nothing below the neck,” he says wistfully, sips his drink. “Still beats this cold.

“Have you ever been to a garden world?” she asks, tries to focus on the conversation, not on the time, not on Jarvis arriving soon, not on wrapping her legs around him, not on hearing him practically growl her name in her ear, his fingers digging into her thighs, the taste of-

Emperor, grant her patience.

“No, never a garden world,” Lynch admits. “If I knew which forms I needed to fill in to get relocated to supervise recovering guardsmen on a garden world, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I think such resorts are reserved for the rich and powerful,” she points out.

“Ah, yes, but it sounds like a nice retirement plan,” he says, winks at her, does not seem overly serious. “Me, some hospitallers, enough gardeners to keep an extensive garden tidy, a handful of skilled cooks, some servants, and pleasantly warm weather.”

“And the guardsmen?” she asks, can’t help but to notice that that quite essential part of his retirement plan seems to have been forgotten.

“And the guardsmen,” he agrees, with some exaggerated reluctance, smiles to let her know he jests.

The familiar knock on the door to the antechamber informs them that Jarvis has arrived. Lynch calls out, lets him know he’s welcome in as Holly gets to her feet, eager to call it a night. Wants to push Jarvis down on the bed, to undress him, touch him, taste him. Wants to tell him how much she’s missed him, desires his touch, how she’s craved a repeat of last night the entire day. Wants to see his face light up, wants to see how excited he gets when she wants more, when she whimpers, gasps, trembles underneath him.

“Right on time,” Lynch says from the couch, raises his glass to Jarvis as the other man enters the room. 

“Commissar, Holly,” he smiles, holds out his arms, welcomes her into an embrace that isn’t as tight as she expected.

She looks up at him, receives a kiss on the forehead, smiles in return, looks down, back up. Slips out of his arms but holds on to him, tugs at his sleeve to get him to follow her. He doesn’t, instead he reaches out, wraps an arm around her, pulls her back in. 

“This, uh, might come out of nowhere, but I promised I’d ask,” he says, eyes on Lynch, not her.

“Go on?”

“Would it be alright if Singh took apart Small’s hand? It’s a prosthetic,” he adds quickly when Lynch’s eyebrows make an admirable attempt at meeting his hairline. “He wants to have a look inside to see what’s causing it to break down.”

“You… have a prosthetic specialist?” Lynch asks, puts down his unfinished glass on the table, movements slow, cautious.

“I, well, of a sort,” he admits. “He’s done repairs and upkeep on Small’s arm for years. And back home, the Singhs traveled to the nearby villages to fix basically any tech issues we had. After my dad lost his leg in an accident his dad fitted him with a new one. I’m not sure how much Singh’s worked with prosthetics before Small, but he knows what he’s doing and he can figure most things out if given a bit of time. And I’ve got no doubt Small knows everything there is to know about the medical side of it, if that helps.”

The smile that grows on Lynch’s face seems to take hold of the left side of his mouth first, the right only slowly remembering to participate. He gets up from the couch with a skip in his step that is highly unusual this late in the evening, slouching being the norm. Holly tries to contain her disappointment as it becomes apparent that she will, in fact, not be having a nice, long evening with Jarvis after all.

“You’re telling me you’ve been sitting on… ok, ok, yes,” he nods, moves his hands as he talks, gives her the impression that he’s trying and failing to hold back a significant amount of newfound energy. “Tell them to get over here, we’ll set them up in the dining room.”

“Right now?”

“Yes!”

Emperor have mercy. This is going to take a while, she knows.

Holly watches as Jarvis steps aside, gives his squad a call, as Lynch paces across the room once, twice. Calms down once he’s gotten his confirmation. Jarvis takes a deep breath.

“One thing though, commissar,” he says, seems a little uncomfortable. “Small. He’s a great guy, a great medic, but he’s a bit… A bit differently wired. Just… please, don’t mistake his enthusiasm or silence for disrespect.”

“I think I can tolerate a bit of rambling,” Lynch replies, unconcerned. “The dining room is this way.”

By the time Singh and Small arrive, are escorted in, they have moved the chairs, brought a spare lamp from Lynch’s office. It is evident that the two guardsmen were in the middle of preparing to go to bed when they were summoned. Holly clears her throat to catch Singh’s eye, points to the corner of her mouth.

“Oh,” he shifts his toolbox to his left hand, wipes off the little bit of semi-dried toothpaste, looks at her, raises his eyebrows, awaits her response. She nods, confirming its removal.

“Will you need more light?” Lynch asks, gesturing towards the spare lamp. “I’ve got another one in my bedroom I can fetch.”

“I think this will be fine, commissar,” Singh smiles, nods, a little nervous it has to be said. He gently puts down the toolbox on the wooden table, as if scared to scratch the polished surface.

Though he’s trembling from the cold, his usually milky pale cheeks and nose flushed red, Small begins peeling off his clothes, one layer at a time. Folds the jacket, the sweater, the mended shirt, finally sits in his undershirt, shivering, offering up his prosthetic arm on the dining room table. Glances nervously at Lynch, at her. Holly smiles, raises her eyebrows a little bit, tries to focus on presenting a friendly, welcoming body language, rather than letting her frustration show through. Does not let her eyes linger on the old, raised scars left by lashes visible on his skinny shoulders, right arm, lower neck.

“Is it just the hand or the entire arm that is malfunctioning?” Lynch asks, leans in to get a closer look at the metal limb, attached at the middle of Small’s upper arm.

“The hand,” he answers quietly, evidently uncomfortable with being the focus of a commissar’s attention. Jarvis is standing next to Holly with an arm wrapped around her shoulders, warm, safe, but she can feel him tense, his body move ever so slightly forwards before he holds himself back, refraining from stepping in.

“Mhm, I see,” Lynch carries on, as if oblivious, though Holly has no doubt that he can tell the medic would rather not engage with him. “That part is new then?”

Small nods as Singh opens the toolbox, pulls out small screwdrivers and pliers. They’ll be fine, she decides, if Small needs help Singh is right there and Lynch is only happy to have found unknown skills among his men. They aren’t needed here, so reaches up to put a hand on Jarvis’ arm, tries to take a small step away. Jarvis doesn’t budge, nor does he let go of her and she finds herself quite stuck. She gives another nudge, tries to silently communicate that they should leave, but though he looks at her, meet her eyes, he doesn’t seem to understand.

“The hand had to be replaced five months ago,” Jarvis says instead, inserting himself into the conversation when they could easily have slipped away. “He got shot in the hand, I got finger splinters in my gut, right underneath the edge of the flak armor.”

“Ah, the ravine, I remember,” he hums. “How long have you had the arm?”

“Almost five years,” Small answers, Lynch’s smile grows stiff, the room goes quiet. The medic shifts uncomfortably in his chair, tries again, this time almost making eye contact. “Four years and ten months, commissar.”

Lynch clears his throat, nods quickly, glances at Jarvis. No doubt putting two and two together, the timeline, the serious injury, the 116th being reduced to scraps.

“The arm requires a little bit of upkeep,” Singh says, sounds unconcerned, mercifully moving the conversation along as he begins to work on unscrewing a thin, small screw at the wrist. “Oiling some parts, opening it up a little and cleaning out some dirt or lint in the cracks, that sort of thing. Very simple, normal maintenance. It never broke down though, but the hand has been falling apart almost since the very beginning.”

Jarvis lets go of her, walks over, pries Small’s sweater from the pile of folded clothes, shakes it loose. Holly watches as he gently wraps it around the medic’s skinny shoulders, covers the scars, provides warmth. Small glances up at him, smiles so briefly it might as well have been her imagination.

Very well. Holly quietly turns around, slips out of the dining room, walks over to Lynch’s bedroom. It is uncharacteristically tidy, but then he has spent his day outdoors, in the office, the dining room. The large closet door has been left open though, so she closes it, steps over to the bed, takes the blue blanket at the foot of the bed with her as she returns.

She has only been gone for a brief moment but both Jarvis and Lynch look up, smile when she returns. There are no objections when she offers the blanket to Small, though she gives it to Jarvis rather than attempt to drape it over his shoulders herself. Isn’t sure such proximity would be entirely welcome.

Once wrapped in the blue cloth, only his prosthetic arm and head sticking out, Small curls up his metal fingers, or at least tries to. The thumb complies, but the other fingers are slow, pinky entirely unresponsive.

“Either something is wrong with the hand, or they’ve done a shoddy work attaching it to the existing wiring in the arm,” Singh explains, removing yet another screw, further up on the forearm. “I’m hoping it’s the latter. If it’s something not screwed on tight enough or connected wrong it’s an easy fix.”

“From what I’ve heard,” Jarvis says, one hand leaning on the back of Small’s chair, “there are a lot of prosthetics that are acting up. There’s a lot of complaints, and not frivolous ones.”

“Mhm,” Lynch agrees readily enough. “Somewhere around three hundred reported cases within the 472nd alone.”

That is more than Holly would have thought, but then Small did mention that they were running out of prosthetics after trying and failing to get his replaced, the hospital is overflowing with patients, the 472nd is mostly made up by veterans. And yet she can’t help but to feel that this is not something that Jarvis can solve.

It is selfish, she knows, but she has waited the entire day to feel his weight press down on her, feel his fingers exploring, his lips pressed against hers. Singh and Small will be fine without them. She can’t imagine a scenario where Lynch would do them any harm, especially not now that they are actively trying to help. Again, she reaches out, tugs at Jarvis’ sleeve, tries to coax him into leaving with her. Again, no success. She tries moving away from him, step closer to the door, hopes that he will follow, and yet he remains.

Singh begins to remove plates, more screws, occasionally reaches in with a long, thin piece of metal to prod a tight corner, remove some filth that has snuck inside. Holly had thought that it was a matter of unscrewing the hand at the wrist, but Singh proceeds to open up the entire lower arm, puts down the pieces in front of him in a neat row. Organized, orderly, meticulous. Inside the arm she sees the layers of wires, of metal rods, of tubes. Piece after tiny piece removed, like skin peeled from a captive refusing to reveal information. Wires in red, black, white, almost like flesh, veins, sinews.

Small gives another show of attempting to move his fingers while Singh bends over the limb, prods the wires, face scrunched up, not liking what he sees.

Lynch watches for a little while, then turns his attention to Jarvis.

“So, what other secret skills is your squad sitting on?”

“Oh, well,” he clears his throat. “Wechsler’s good with people, knows when you need a stern talking to or a kind word before you do.”

“It’s mostly a stern talking to,” Singh pipes up, his tone suggesting it is a compliment even if the words say the opposite.

“She’s stronger than she looks too,” Jarvis says, catches Holly’s eye, smiles. She smiles in return, though she wants to march over, grab his arm, drag him out of the dining room. Wants to press him against the wall of their bedroom, unbuckle his belt, take him in her mouth without further warm up or warning. “Once she hauled Colman’s unconscious ass out of a building.”

“And called him fat for two weeks afterwards,” Singh takes out a small drill, gives it a test whirr before beginning to remove one of the larger screws.

“I told her muscles weigh more than fat,” Small says quietly, eyes on his hand as it is taken apart piece by piece.

“Yes, well,” Jarvis glances at Lynch, shrugs. “Coleman’s solid, and a good cook. His family ran a restaurant in the capitol, probably still do. His brisket is _almost_ as good as mom’s. Before we were shipped off to join the 472nd we lived in an assigned flat and he did nearly all the cooking in the beginning while we were healing. I don’t think I appreciated it nearly enough.”

Lynch listens, a gentle smile on his lips, expression unchanging but friendly. Seems to enjoy the casual conversation, witnessing the familiarity, almost being a part of the experience. Holly is well acquainted with the feeling. 

“You then?” he asks.

“Oh, no,” Jarvis clears his throat, reaches up to scratch his burned cheek, smiles uncomfortably. “If you need someone to do some heavy lifting or grox wrangling, I can do that, but that’s about it.”

Or eat her out and finger her with such dedication that she sees stars. Holly doesn’t want to be _here_. She wants to be in their bedroom, with Jarvis pushing her up against the wall, his hands in her hair, thigh between her legs, letting her grind against him as he kisses her.

“Hm,” Lynch responds. The noise taking a distinct upturn, suggesting surprise perhaps, maybe disagreement, Holly isn’t certain. “How’s the runt?”

“Roth? Oh, she’s great. Good eyes, steady hands, smart. Holly’s been teaching her some High Gothic. She keeps up with us, no problem,” he insists. “She’s just a kid, but she’s a good kid. All she needed was for the starting line to be where she was, not where people five or ten years her senior were at. I think she’ll go far if given the chance.”

“Mhm,” Lynch looks at Jarvis for a moment before his eyes turn to Small, find Holly’s. Nods slowly, tries to hold back an amused smile, as if there is some great joke that both she and Jarvis missed. He steps away, saunters over to Holly, leans in to practically whisper in her ear. “Your guardsman can’t see the orks for the waaagh.”

“No,” she agrees. Wishes she had her legs wrapped around his head, her fingers in his hair, gasping for breath. Instead, she is here, watching Singh inspect wires.

The others talk for a little while as Singh works until Lynch thoroughly betrays her.

“Would it help if you had more than one item to compare it to?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” Singh takes a break from glaring at wires to look up. “It would.”

The Emperor has abandoned her.

She watches as Lynch wanders off to summon more people, while Jarvis talks to Small, all casual and relaxed. It is already late, she has given up all hope of sex, her eyes are longing for the dark, for sleep, and yet here they are. Chitchatting. An entire day getting herself worked up for nothing. The unreasonable part of her wants to do nothing more than file a formal complaint.

 _I write to you to formally register my distress, displeasure, and disappointment at the behavior of my boyfriend, one sergeant Jarvis Eade, who has repeatedly ignored my very much real and ardent need for private time with him_ …

By the time commissar Varela strides into the dining room, ducking ever so slightly as she does so, Holly has almost pushed the disappointment out of her mind. The tall commissar greets Lynch and Holly, holding her discarded prosthetic under her remaining left arm, the right sleeve of her coat pinned to her shoulder. The mood that had slowly relaxed, become comfortable, friendly, quickly changes, freezes as if the heating suddenly had been turned off.

“You are investigating the malfunctioning prosthetics?” Varela asks, too loud. Looks down at Singh who freezes for a second, blinks, quickly smiles. It looks genuine to Holly, though she doubts that it is.

“Yes, commissar,” he manages. “I, ah…”

He falters as she holds out the metal limb, accepts it only to turn and look up and down the table, searches for a suitable place to put it that won’t disturb the pieces he has removed from Small’s prosthetic.

If Jarvis felt comfortable keeping a conversation with Lynch going, the same cannot be said for talking with commissar Varela. The guardsmen are deadly quiet while Singh works, though the other woman seems to pay them no mind. It is, perhaps, not surprising then that it is Lynch who breaks the silence.

“How are the paintings coming along?” he asks, leaning against the table.

The look Varela gives him is one of stunned outrage, as if she cannot believe he has the audacity to reveal that she is a human being in front of the guardsmen. The silence stretches on, Singh’s hands having frozen in place, and yet Lynch smiles, waits, clearly expects an answer. Finally, commissar Varela takes pity on them, raises her left hand and gestures to her right shoulder.

“Poorly,” she informs him through clenched teeth. “I’m training my left hand and I recon I will have to train the new right hand once I get one.”

“You paint?” Holly asks, is met with a pause, a grimace, finally a nod.

“Charcoal sketches,” she admits, however reluctantly.

“I’ve seen a few of them,” Lynch says. “She’s very talented.”

Varela opens her mouth as if to object, to thank him for the compliment, to tell him off, Holly isn’t sure. In the end, no words come, the tall woman closes her mouth, lets out a deep sigh.

“It is good for the mind to have a hobby that doesn’t require other people,” she finally offers.

“That’s what I always say,” Lynch says cheerfully.

“You have never said that,” Holly objects, hears Jarvis snort, try to mask it as a cough, though Lynch laughs readily enough. Doesn’t mind being called out on such a measly lie, not by her at any rate. She catches Singh watching her before his dark eyes turn down to the wires and screws again.

“You’re right, of course. She is very observant,” he adds for Varela’s benefit. The other commissar only nods, her sleek ponytail moving ever so slightly back and forth. Does not suggest that he should try taking up the hobby himself, does not join in neither with laughter nor banter.

For the better part of half an hour Lynch attempts to coax Varela into small talk, while the guardsmen make an admirable attempt at being invisible. The other commissar is not typically this uncooperative, resistant to Lynch’s attempts at socialization, Holly knows. Also knows she is not to blame. She has been present, even participated somewhat, in previous exchanges. Doesn’t feel too uncomfortable to offer a few words here and there, encouraged by Lynch’s purposely good mood, despite Varela’s reluctance.

“These are c-11 wires,” Singh suddenly says, frowning, holding a single long red wire still attached to Varela’s discarded arm between his fingers.

“Is that significant?” commissar Varela asks politely, no doubt relieved for an end to the small talk that has been forced upon her.

“You typically use d-11 in prosthetics, since they are more durable,” he tells her, glances at Lynch. “C-11 are cheaper, but prone to fraying if moved or bent frequently. You _could_ use them in areas that don’t bend, but they’ve run them through the entire arm.”

“Are we talking sabotage?” Lynch asks.

“Could be, could be someone trying to cut costs during production. It would be about two-thirds of the cost, using c-11 instead of d-11.”

“Shouldn’t that have been discovered when people were equipped with them?”

“Yes, but, hm, Small, arm,” he gestures for the medic to bring his open metal arm closer, reaches inside, pulls out another red wire. Brings them next to each other. “They look near identical, the d-11 is a little thicker, but if you are stressed and assume that everything is in order you probably wouldn’t notice. From what I can see, this can be fixed provided we have the necessary equipment, but it will require a lot of work rewiring and reattaching.”

“Shouldn’t the tech-priests have discovered this already?” Holly asks, it doesn’t seem right, well over three hundred cases of malfunctioning prosthetics and nothing has been done? Surely someone must have noticed by now.

“I’ll send Taggart a message,” Lynch says, turns to walk out of the room, to fetch his dataslate no doubt abandoned unsupervised in his office. Holly reaches out, puts her hand between him and the door.

“In person,” she says, feels everyone’s eyes on her.

“What?”

“If the tech-priests are compromised so is any digital communication,” Holly elaborates, doesn’t like doing so in front of everyone but it can’t be helped.

Commissar Varela’s eyes narrow for but a moment before she steps forward, her ponytail swinging, places her left hand on Lynch’s shoulder, presses him forward.

“A word,” she says, tone dark, incensed. Holly quickly pulls back, steps aside. Though the other woman isn’t looking at her it feels like she has done something wrong, said something wrong.

The two commissars leave the room, the door closes. Jarvis reaches for her, has evidently seen her distress. Wraps his arms around her, kisses the top of her head, smiles.

“You’re probably right,” he tells her, keeps his tone soft, gentle, assuring.

“She’s angry,” she points out.

“I don’t think she’s angry with you,” Jarvis tries, though he doesn’t sound very convincing. She overstepped, gave Lynch instructions in front of both commissar and guardsmen. Commissar Varela cares about appearances in a different way than Lynch does, will take advice when requested, but perhaps Holly presented it the wrong way. Perhaps it was the presence of the guardsmen that changed the rules.

It doesn’t take long before she starts to relax into Jarvis’ embrace, soak in his warmth, enjoy his scent, get a little hot and bothered again. He lets go of her, steps back without a warning as the commissars return too soon. A stark reminder of how the entire evening has been spent.

“Singh,” Lynch says, frowns a little as he speaks. “Is the hand also equipped with these c-11 wires?”

“Yes,” he nods, gestures at the open prosthetic, as if they can confirm his statement at a glance.

“Well, then it’s probably just a shoddy shipment,” he declares confidently, offers a smile as if apologizing for the inconvenience. “Why don’t you put that back together and wrap things up. It’s late and I’m sure everyone would prefer to be in bed right about now.”

“Yes, commissar,” Singh agrees with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Polite, agreeable, nonconfrontational, but not genuine.

“I’ll send the arm over tomorrow,” Lynch adds to his fellow commissar.

“It’s fine if it takes a while to put back together,” she says. “I can’t use it either way. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Quite, quite,” Lynch agrees, escorts Varela out of the dining room again, once more leaving the four of them to their own devices. 

“They were already suspicious of at least one of the tech-priests,” Small says quietly, giving voice to Holly’s thoughts.

“And we are not to know,” Jarvis agrees. “So, we keep our mouths shut about this.”

“Seems to me sharing information is how we solve this,” Singh points out, hands working fast now, reattaching wires and screws with practiced ease.

“Seems to me knowing too much is going to have you disappear without a trace like Williams.”

“Point,” he says, briefly glances over at Holly.

Williams. One of the men who once stood guard by their front door, whose partner fell of a guard tower. Missing without a trace for almost three months. Truth be told, she has begun to suspect that he’s slipped onto a shuttle alongside navy personnel. There are a lot of nooks and crannies someone could disappear into, but the cold makes most of them deadly and where there is warmth there are eyes.

Her eyes, on the other hand, are tired. She is tired.

“I’m going to go to bed,” she declares, bids Singh and Small a good night. Even now Jarvis does not follow.

“I’ll be right there,” he says instead, probably means it. She is of half a mind to tell him not to bother, holds her tongue, walks away.

By the time she pulls the nightgown over her head there is a knock on the door, Jarvis steps inside, talks casually about the day as if it isn’t unbearably late. She gets into bed, evens out her pillow, pulls the covers over herself, waits. Eventually he turns off the lights, gets into bed on the other side, settles in.

“Are you upset?” he asks in the dark.

It isn’t the right word, upset, so she denies it. Eyes closed, body relaxing, waiting for sleep. It doesn’t take long before she hears him clear his throat.

“I’m sorry I ruined the evening.”

“You didn’t ruin the evening.”

“Hm. Then why are you sulking?” Jarvis asks.

“I’m not-” she starts, realizes that she is lying on her side of the bed, fairly close to the edge, back turned to him. No attempt at rolling closer to him. Not touching. “Maybe I’m a little annoyed,” she admits. “I just… wanted to do a thing, and instead…”

Jarvis scoots closer, reaches out, rubs her upper arm gently.

“What was it you wanted to do?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, doesn’t want to explain, it would feel like she was punishing him if she didn’t want to try it later. “You did the right thing. This was more important.”

“Hm,” comes the reply, sounds unconvinced. “We can do it tomorrow?” he tries.

“I might not be in the mood.”

“Mhm,” his hand finds her waist, touches her gingerly as if afraid she’ll pull away. “How about I give you a massage tomorrow? As an apology, not to get you in the mood.”

Holly is silent for a little while, considers it, turns towards him even though she cannot see him. 

“I’ve never had a massage before,” she admits. Feels him kiss her cheek in the dark.

“I’ll make it a long one,” he promises. “I wouldn’t want to further displease the mistress of the house, who evidently can send commissars scuttling away with a dark look.”

“That’s…” she pauses. “You’re teasing.”

“Yes,” he agrees, she can practically hear the smile in his tone. “Just a little.”


End file.
